


The Prison and the Open Hand

by Ingu



Series: This War Against Your Faith [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, Denial of Feelings, Friends to Lovers, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, Jealousy, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Miscommunication, Mission Fic, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Period Typical Attitudes, Protectiveness, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-11
Updated: 2015-12-02
Packaged: 2018-04-20 04:50:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 37,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4774178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ingu/pseuds/Ingu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“We’re good friends,” Napoleon admits, and he can’t help the edge of bitterness that slips into his voice. Illya hadn’t precisely held a gun to his head when Napoleon made that concession, but it doesn’t stop the indignant fury that arises at the memory. His anger is mostly directed at himself, for not realising in time that Illya would turn Napoleon’s own questions against him, for not knowing when to leave well enough alone, and for shattering his hope with reality before he really even got the chance to dream. </p><p>But Gaby doesn’t know any of that, and it’s better to let her come to her own conclusions about why Napoleon is annoyed. </p><p>“I just don’t see why he’s making such a fuss over this particular mission,” Napoleon continues, recalcitrant.</p><p>“Then talk to him,” Gaby moans.</p><p>(Temporary Hiatus.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, it looks like this is happening. All mistakes in chapters 1-3 remain mine, later chapters betaed by the fantastic [artionn](http://artionn.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Before you ask, yes I definitely do plan to finish this.

“You really need to talk to Illya.”

Sometimes, Napoleon can swear Gaby is far too intuitive for her own good.

“He’s a big boy, he’ll be fine,” Napoleon says, taking another sip of his coffee like there isn’t a sour taste in his mouth.

They’re sitting together at a tiny café outside Central Park, sharing lunch over small talk that has just taken a turn for the uncomfortable. He and Gaby are sitting close enough for people to assume they’re lovers, less for undercover considerations than for Napoleon’s attempt to test her observational skills using street traffic. She steals another fry off of his plate, and stares at him with knowing eyes hidden behind a pair of bright orange shades.

“You know he’s worried about you, right?”

Napoleon catches the eyes of a gorgeous blonde woman and offers her his most dashing smile. She glances at Gaby and then turns away with a look of distaste, Napoleon frowns.

“I don’t see any reason why he should be,” Napoleon says, leaning back in his chair and scanning the afternoon crowd for a new victim. He doesn’t need to look to know Gaby is rolling her eyes.

“Are you still pretending you don’t care about each other?”

An indignant retort ( _I don’t know what you’re talking about_ ) almost makes it past his lips before he recognizes he’ll just be digging himself a deeper hole. If it’s anyone else having this conversation with him, they’d have read between the lines and dropped the topic long ago. But Gaby is not just anyone, and in the four months since their first meeting, all three of them have become too invested in each other to fake emotional distance in any remotely convincing way. UNCLE’s little trust exercise two weeks ago had made sure of that, as far as he and Illya are concerned.

“We’re _good friends_ ,” Napoleon admits, and he can’t help the edge of bitterness that slips into his voice. Illya hadn’t precisely held a gun to his head when Napoleon made that concession, but it doesn’t stop the indignant fury that arises at the memory. His anger is mostly directed at himself, for not realizing in time that Illya would turn Napoleon’s own questions against him, for not knowing when to leave well enough alone, and for shattering his hope with reality before he really even got the chance to dream.

But Gaby doesn’t know any of that, and it’s better to let her come to her own conclusions about why Napoleon is annoyed.

“I just don’t see why he’s making such a fuss over this particular mission,” Napoleon continues, recalcitrant.

“Then talk to him,” Gaby moans, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world and Napoleon is just too stupid to see it. Then, she pushes down the rim of her shades and directs the full force of her glare at Napoleon. “Don’t make me make you.”

 

-

  

The current problem between him and Illya, like most problems in Napoleon’s life, is one entirely of his own making.

“Your target is this man,” Waverly had said, sliding a pair of folders across the table toward the two of them. “Mark Barath. He is an expert at helping people disappear. Has made quite a name for himself in the business, I hear his forgeries are top notch.”

He and Illya were in Waverly’s office, sitting in the exact same seats as they had sat in during the aftermath of their very successful (or is it disastrous?) passing of UNCLE’s loyalty challenge. The entire debacle had inspired horrible realizations followed by multiple uncomfortable conversations. Illya had only forgiven Napoleon after he awkwardly apologized and admitted that yes, he had behaved like a five year old and yes, he really was an asshole. Just not in those exact words.

Thankfully, Illya had never asked why Napoleon had started tossing around inappropriate accusations, likely chalking all of it up to Napoleon’s suspicious and offensive capitalist sensibilities. For once, Illya’s apathy had been appreciable over the truth. What would Napoleon have said? That the electricity had fried his brain, and for a crazy moment he had believed Illya might be secretly in love with him?

In retrospect, it was good the conversation turned out the way it did. Now he can put aside his own unwelcome feelings and try to move on, through the company of attractive ladies… and maybe a few gentlemen.

Napoleon had listened with half an ear as he skimmed through the contents of the dossier, distracted by the familiar urge to stare at the Russian sitting beside him. The team was to track down an errant corporate thief, who’d stolen the research and plans for an advanced prototype supercomputer from the company contracted to develop it. The technology was supposed to give the U.S. a significant advantage in the Cold War, that is, until their data and backups mysteriously disappeared two months ago, along with Ms. Janine Russell, a company secretary.

“Our intelligence indicates that Ms. Russell made contact with Mr. Barath two days before she disappeared from her apartment on the Champs-Élysées.”

Napoleon had always liked Paris.

“That doesn’t seem like the type of neighborhood you can afford on a secretary’s wages,” he remarked, directing his gaze toward Waverley. Illya looked at Napoleon, and Napoleon wanted to point a conspiratory smirk his way, one full of innuendo and nefarious suggestion as to the character of their female target. Napoleon didn’t so much as twitch, and Illya turned his attention back to the files.

“It’s not,” Waverly said, “The apartment belongs to her close personal friend, Élodie Beaumont, heiress to the Beaumont fortune. They’re bankers who financed half of France’s reconstruction costs following the war, and made a pretty penny off those loans. The two met while Ms. Beaumont was visiting the States during her debutante days, and since then, Ms. Russell has been known to make frequent visits to her friend in Paris.”

A young, wealthy heiress usually ticked all of Napoleon’s usual boxes when it came to preferred targets for intelligence gathering. But Napoleon didn’t know and didn’t really care if Élodie Beaumont was as beautiful as her name and position implied. He never made it past Barath’s dossier, his eyes caught by a certain phrase in the man’s file. It was as though the sky had suddenly cleared and the heavens sent down a ray of light, highlighting three little words that stirred to life every delinquent urge Napoleon had ever suppressed.

“Agent Solo, you are to make contact with Élodie Beaumont,” Waverly continued, oblivious as to the terrible idea that was forming in Napoleon’s head. “See if you can find out what she knows about her friend’s illegal activities and, most importantly, Ms. Russell’s current whereabouts.”

Illya’s anger from two weeks ago played in Napoleon’s mind. This would definitely earn Napoleon a reaction, maybe even an outburst. There was only one way to find out.

Napoleon glanced over toward Illya and drinked in the sight of his unsuspecting victim, still intently reading the second page of the dossier. Then Napoleon met Waverly’s gaze, and took the plunge.

“What about Barath?”

Waverly raised one eyebrow. “What about him, Solo?”

“Who’s pursuing him?” he asked, taking out the photo of their target, a handsome grey-eyed gentleman, and displaying it to Waverly.

Waverly’s eyes flitted to the photo. “Kuryakin will approach him as a Soviet defector, and request for a new identity.”

Napoleon immediately turned to Illya with a blossoming grin, to find the Russian’s eyes already shining with outrage.

“He will take the opportunity to investigate Barath’s operations, and ascertain the location of Russell.” Waverly concluded, watching Illya warily.

“I would never-“

“I know, Kuryakin, you are very loyal to mother Russia,” Waverly interjected before Illya had the chance to work himself into a rage. “But need I remind you that this is for the sake of the mission? If those plans fall into the wrong hands it’s not just the U.S. that may find their encrypted communications compromised for a long time to come.”

Illya’s shoulders slumped, and when he looked away to glare holes into the wall, his lips pressed into what Napoleon almost wanted to call a pout. How did he make that look so cute?

The Russian’s obvious displeasure at having to ‘betray’ his country was the final nail in Napoleon’s self-designed coffin.

“With all due respect for Peril’s undercover skills,” Napoleon said, wondering if it was better to just come out and say it. “I feel like everyone here can agree that he will probably make the least convincing Soviet defector in the history of the Socialist Union.”

Illya’s glare turned on Napoleon, but his eyes were confused, like he wasn’t sure if he should be affronted or complimented.

Waverly frowned, looking between the two of them. “What are you proposing, Solo?”

“Barath,” Napoleon said, raising the photo with a flourish. “Give him to me. A rogue thief trying to escape the CIA is a far more convincing story than Boris the Soviet defector. I’m sure Gaby could become great friends with Ms. Beaumont.”

“You trust Solo to make contact with a known identity forger?” Illya interrupted.

Napoleon turned his eyes toward Illya. It was his turn to be outraged. “Peril! That is hurtful!”

“I do not appreciate you trying to steal my assignment, Cowboy.”

“I am trying to protect your virtue, Peril,” Napoleon said, teasing, readying himself to deliver the final blow. “This man is a known homosexual. Tell me, what do you think you’d do if he decides to proposition you?”

Illya froze, a deer in the headlights, and Napoleon’s heart twisted at the expression on his face. It couldn’t be fear in Illya’s eyes, but Napoleon had no other word for what he saw. Anger and disgust too, swirled at the edges.

Then, Illya was leafing through the pages of the file Napoleon only skimmed, until he landed on the critical page and began to read it with a stony expression.

Napoleon watched Illya’s reaction with a sinking heart. Feeling slightly sick, he turned back to Waverly.

“I think in light of what we know about Mr. Barath, it might be best for me to take on these responsibilities.”

“No,” Illya growled, staring up with eyes so intense Napoleon felt struck by lightning. “I’ll do it.”

There was something dangerous in Illya’s eyes, a feral glint hiding behind that look of cold determination. Napoleon had no idea where it came from, and what it was driving Illya toward, but the strength of it was enough to unsettle him.

Napoleon’s gaze turned toward Waverly, waiting for his decision.

The man studied both of them thoughtfully, his eyes unreadable behind his glasses. Illya was tense beside him, his fingers tapping against the folder in a worrying manner.

“Well,” Waverly said at long last, back to his good humor, “I think Agent Solo here has made quite a good case. And forgive me Kuryakin but, your anger has been known to cause problems during missions.”

Rome, Tunis, Greenwich, just to name a few incidents. Napoleon relaxed into his seat, studying Illya out of the corner of his eye. The Russian looked positively stricken, and Napoleon had the distinct feeling he just brutally kicked a puppy. There seemed to be more than just wounded pride behind Illya's hurt. Was he trying to protect him? Napoleon swallowed back a knot of guilt.

“Solo will be the one to make contact with Barath, and Kuryakin, at this time I will request for you to act as his backup. I’ll bring in Ms. Teller, and ask for her to investigate Ms. Beaumont."

Illya’s face shifted into an expressionless mask of acquiescence, but his hands, Napoleon noted with alarm, were trembling even harder.

Then, all that was left to discus were logistics. They were both dismissed soon after, and Illya almost immediately disappeared from the room, his steps heavy in the hallway. Napoleon adjusted his suit, readying himself to follow and ask Illya just what was going on, praying that the Red Peril hadn’t picked up on Napoleon’s selfish intentions.

“Agent Solo?” Waverly called, stopping Napoleon before he could make it out the door. Napoleon turned around, again the impassive foot soldier.

“I do hope you know what you are doing,” Waverly said, considering Napoleon with serious eyes.

He’s been caught. The shock silenced Napoleon for only a moment, before he broke into a smile he didn’t quite feel.

“Don’t I always?”

He didn’t, and Waverly looked at Napoleon like he knew it.

 

-

 

Napoleon, mostly because he believes in resisting attractive bullies in designer dresses and oversized sunglasses, and also because he is used to being a man who makes his own unwise decisions, doesn’t talk to Illya.

Waverly’s reaction throws him, and he can’t help feeling like the petty five year old he had jokingly admitted to being. He had been curious as to how Illya would react when confronted with a target possessing _’known homosexual proclivities’_ , one Napoleon has stepped forward to possibly seduce if the need may arise. Illya’s reaction hadn’t been lacking. But with Waverly’s words floating in his mind, Napoleon finds himself wondering if he’s trying too hard to prove something that should best be left behind. What does it matter if Illya hates homosexuals like the rest of the world or not? What does it really matter?

Napoleon is supposed to be moving on.

The die is cast, and Napoleon has to take responsibility for his actions. But he’s not quite ready to immediately apologize. Not talking to Illya turns out to be very simple, because Illya starts to ignore Napoleon in the aftermath of the briefing. On that day, he disappears into the streets of Manhattan, and completely misses their lunch date with Gaby. With Illya’s absence hanging over their heads, and without the man’s usual distraction, Gaby had rapidly moved her focus onto the current tension between the two of them.

Illya says nothing to Napoleon when the three of them meet at the airport and board the flight to Paris. He stays quiet on the flight over, remaining silent as they collect their luggage and take separate cabs to the hotel where they are meant to stay. Gaby is the only one who can get anything other than single syllables out of him. As hard as she tries to include Napoleon in the conversation, Illya freezes up and glares at the nearest flat surface whenever Napoleon so much as makes himself known.

In his hotel room, Napoleon pours himself a finger of scotch, and takes a long drink. He stares out at the Parisian street outside and regrets both his reckless decision and his stubbornness from before. His personal pride is not worth it when Illya is clearly far more hurt than Napoleon had expected.

How should he phrase the apology? _I’m sorry, Peril, I didn’t mean to imply you are a bad spy? I seem to still be as big of a jerk as I was too weeks ago, sorry I didn’t learn my lesson?_ There is no way Illya would buy that Napoleon had really been thinking of the mission, even Waverly had seen right through him. Illya must feel humiliated. Napoleon should have chased after him when he still had the chance.

Three loud, heavy knocks sound from the door, and Napoleon turns toward it in alarm.

Speak of the devil.


	2. Chapter 2

When Napoleon opens the door, it’s with a look of uncertainty on his face.

He’s surprised to see him, Illya thinks. Anger flares at the thought, even though Illya knows he should be expecting this reaction. This time, he’s prepared for the way his insides twist the moment he sees the blue in Napoleon’s eyes.

Illya’s expression stays grim when Napoleon steps back and lets him into the room, and he takes a moment to study the surroundings. For this mission, Napoleon has a smaller room than usual, far more modest in size and furnishings but still too embellished for Illya’s taste. There’s a balcony exit in the first room, and a window by the bed.

“Care for a drink?” says Napoleon, who has already wandered over to the liquor cabinet and is pouring himself another healthy glass of amber liquid.

“It’s 2pm,” Illya says.

“So that’s a… no.” Napoleon decides, and takes a slow sip of his own drink while staring at Illya. Illya doesn’t look at the way Napoleon’s throat works as he swallows.

The scrutiny is infuriating. He knows Napoleon is thinking, plotting, he can see the gears ticking behind those eyes. But Illya doesn’t know what, or why. The American has always been strange and unpredictable, even if he has a smile that can stop your heart and a face that looks made by design. The sight of it makes Illya want to trace his fingers along the curve of his jaw, and test for himself to see if that line is really as sharp it seems.

There’s silence, and Illya belatedly remembers the reason for his visit. He speaks again before Napoleon’s presence can drive him to further distraction.

“I’m here to discuss the mission.”

“Mm,” Napoleon hums, thoughtful as he strolls to the sofa and sinks into it comfortably. “Barath runs his operation through a restaurant in Ile Saint Louis, I have a reservation for tonight.” Then Napoleon’s tone dips into a register that’s almost seductive, and he watches Illya with a coy smile. “Care to join me?”

What is he trying to do? Illya can’t tell if he’s being mocked, or if this is just another of the American’s jokes. The low rumble of Napoleon’s voice makes Illya’s heart do strange flips in his chest, and he hides his discomfort with a glare. “We’re not supposed to know each other.”

“And yet you’re in my hotel room,” Napoleon says with a pout. He’s stretched out completely, like a lazy cat. The fabric of his suit pulls tight around his body.

Now Illya is certain he’s being mocked. “You have the cufflinks?” Illya says, determinedly ignoring the bait and the unwelcome thoughts that are lurking at the edges of his mind.

Napoleon puts down his drink, unaffected. “It’s in my luggage. I trust you’ll be outside, eavesdropping as usual?”

Illya nods once. The cufflinks each contain a tracker and an audio bug, and as long as Napoleon wears them, Illya will be able to monitor the situation from nearby. He’ll be ready to move if there is any sign things are going wrong. “Then we are set, we’ll rendezvous back at the hotel by midnight.”

He doesn’t want to, and doesn’t need to stay longer, not when Napoleon is studying him with dark eyes. It almost seems deliberate, the way Napoleon keeps rousing all kinds of unnecessary feelings inside of him. His mind supplies lingering glances and wistful looks from Napoleon that didn’t happen, reads longing and melancholy where it cannot exist, and everything twists and spirals inside into something disgusting and wrong. He cannot stay.

With his duty done, Illya turns to go.

“Wait, Illya.”

Illya pauses, having barely moved. He turns his gaze back the American. Unexpectedly, Napoleon seems uncomfortable, and the same uncertainty from before has returned to his expression. Illya’s heart sinks with anticipation.

“Are you- are we okay?” Napoleon says, his gaze boring into Illya.

“What are you talking about?” His mind retreats, with a mantra of ‘ _he knows, he knows’_.

Napoleon scowls at him, exasperated, and then he looks away. Illya doesn’t like that expression on Napoleon’s face. Napoleon should be always smiling, should always have that sparkle in his eyes. But then Illya recalls his own behavior for the last few days and knows that this is his fault. He doesn’t like that fact either. He hadn’t known what to do, after the briefing. The thought of Napoleon trapped in the same space with that sort of man, the possibility of Napoleon being captured, maybe forced to…

Illya had just needed time to regain control. And then time to find a way to be near Napoleon without his thoughts spiraling into chaos. He hadn’t, couldn’t, tell Napoleon why.

“Look, I’m… sorry for what I did, for taking over your mission like this,” Napoleon says, his eyes sad, and there is no trace of insincerity in his voice. “I never meant to cause any offence.”

Napoleon is apologizing, and Illya doesn’t understand.

“That’s not-” he starts to speak, but his words fail. He swallows, and breathes deeply. “You do not need to protect me.”

Napoleon blinks, taken aback. “What?”

“I do not care if Barath is another breed of despicable compared to the usual men we face,” Illya explains, “I would have taken care of it.”

Napoleon stares at him, and the guilt in those eyes seem to double. Illya tenses, this isn’t what he wants.

“I’m… sorry,” says Napoleon, with too much surprise. He had never expected Illya to understand his intentions, and this is the insult that makes Illya’s teeth grind. Did he genuinely think Illya wouldn’t believe him? Illya has trained and fought his own life to be the one who protects and not the one who is looked after. As much as he hates them, men who do this to other men, he would still have done whatever it takes to complete the mission before he kills Barath. Illya is not someone to be protected. He is not weak. He is no longer a child.

Thoughts and feelings boil inside of him, in one confusing, conflicting mess that only distills down to anger. In the end, the only words he can manage are: “Do not do this again.”

Napoleon nods once, his eyes wide, and Illya flees.

 

-

 

He wastes almost an hour in his room, staring at the pages of a book until his emotions calm into a manageable state. Then, he goes and checks on Gaby for the sake of having a distraction. Illya doesn’t want to spend any more time thinking about all the ways the mission tonight can go wrong. He had already spent the entire flight pouring over the details, coming up with possibilities and contingencies, knowing that this time, Napoleon is walking into even greater danger. But there is a point where planning becomes obsessing, and Illya can feel himself threatening to go over the edge.

He knocks on her door, three times. Seconds later, Gaby is pulling it open, blinking up at him in surprise. A tiny thread of rejection winds its way between his ribs. Illya ignores it.

“I thought we’re not supposed to make contact during a mission,” Gaby says, when Illya is inside the room and the door is shut. Her brows are furrowed as she leans against the couch in a colorful sack dress, a drink in her hand.

Saint Laurent, Illya notes, pleased with her choice.

“Drink?” she says.

Illya looks at the offered glass of vodka, and shakes his head. “It’s 3pm.”

Gaby shrugs with an exaggerated frown, but holds onto the glass for herself. By now, she asks more out of remembered courtesy than genuine expectation. Her room is larger than both his and Napoleon’s, with a far nicer view than the small side street Napoleon’s room overlooks. There’s also a balcony, and three windows to keep an eye on. Illya’s brow creases slightly.

“So, have you two talked yet?” Gaby says, eying him expectantly over the rim of her glass.

“I’m here about the mission,” Illya replies immediately.

“There’s a gala at the Louvre tomorrow night. Beaumont will be there. Waverly got me an invitation. My earrings are over the vanity,” Gaby says breezily. Then, she takes another sip, “So, have you two talked yet?”

Illya’s presses his lips together. He doesn’t want to talk about Napoleon.

Gaby looks at him, and raises her brows. Illya caves.

“We talked.”

“About more than just the mission, right?” Gaby says, her eyes narrowing. “Because if you two go on being like this around each other, this trip is not going to end well.”

“We talked.” Illya says again, stubborn. “We’re okay.”

Gaby just stares at him, unimpressed.

“It won’t interfere with work,” he adds.

Gaby studies him, then much to Illya’s relief, she deflates.

“If you say so,” she says, her eyes softening. “Now, come practice French with me?”

 

-

 

They spend the rest of the afternoon exchanging stilted conversations with giant dictionaries in their laps, teaching each other new words. For a short few hours, Illya forgets his problems, and focuses on overcoming the challenge of French pronunciation.

If only he had kept his crush on Gaby, Illya thinks when she starts making up nonsense words to try and trick him. She’s beautiful. Fierce and strong and determined, and better than almost anyone else he knows. But after Rome, he had never found the chance or the courage to go through with that kiss, and as the weeks rolled by, the fire had dimmed, flickered, and then went out.

Instead of her, it was Napoleon Solo, the irritatingly handsome and capable American agent, who had somehow stolen away first Illya’s attention and then his sanity over the months of their affiliation.

“Mut,” says Gaby. “Courage.”

“You make that up,” Illya grumbles, closing the pages of his dictionary. “That is not a word.”

“Yes it is.”

“Not a word in French.”

“How do you know?”

“Because the French word for courage is courage,” Illya says, taking care to vary his pronunciation.

“Perhaps,” says Gaby, dismissive, “But Mut still means courage.”

“In German.”

Gaby narrows her eyes at him, “How many languages do you speak again?”

“Not enough,” Illya replies. He picks up his scanner and switches it on again, like he has been doing every fifteen minutes, and fiddles with the knobs to pick up the signal from Napoleon’s tracker. Gaby watches, dispassionate, they have already clarified that Illya has planted at least three bugs in her belongings. Unlike Napoleon, she is not as concerned about Illya knowing her whereabouts.

“How many did you plant on him this time?” Gaby says.

“Not enough,” Illya says, frowning as he stares at the display, the signal is not coming in. He twists the knobs and tries for the next tracker.

Then, a blinking light finally appears, and it moves steadily in one direction. Illya straightens, his eyes narrowing. It’s only just past five. Napoleon’s reservation is not until eight-thirty.

“Problem?” Gaby says, eying him curiously.

“I have to go.” Illya stands up and starts packing away his equipment. He pulls out his handgun and checks the ammunition, before sliding it back into its holster.

“You know he can take can take care of himself, right?”

“I’m his backup,” Illya says, and then he’s out the door.

 

-

 

Illya is there waiting when Napoleon turns the corner. The American is already dressed for dinner, his bespoke English cut suit fitting him snugly, and UNCLE's custom checkerboard cufflinks at his wrists. Uncharacteristically, Cowboy is distracted, and he jumps when he spots Illya sitting by a row of parked bicycles, hunched in his jacket.

“Jesus.” Napoleon gasps, reeling back with a grimace. “Please stop doing that.”

“You’re distracted, someone could have killed you just then,” Illya says, scowling as he stands. Is it what he said earlier? Napoleon couldn’t have truly thought Illya wouldn’t realize that Napoleon did not mean to insult his abilities. Or is something else going on with Cowboy?

“Well, you very almost did,” Napoleon says, again refusing to take things seriously.

Illya turns away, looking as frustrated as he feels. He tries to decide if he should press the matter further, but Napoleon is already stepping around him, and heading on his way.

Illya frowns, and follows.

“Where are you going?”

“A café, or maybe a bar,” Napoleon says, “I thought I’d find myself some company for tonight.”

Napoleon wants to find a woman. His words pierce Illya’s chest, and anger inexplicably rises. “Your reservation is in three hours.”

“Yes, which gives me plenty of time to find some interesting company,” Napoleon says, smiling that charming smile he tries whenever he wants to either get something or get out of something, “Unless you’ve reconsidered my offer?”

“Do not toy with me. You’re insulting yourself, acting like this.”

For a moment, Napoleon almost looks hurt, and frustration flashes behind his eyes when he looks away. Illya’s brows furrow, confused, and his anger surges forward a second time. Who is Napoleon to act like a victim when he’s the one making fun of Illya? Illya is not one of _those_  men, no matter what Napoleon may think he knows.

When their eyes meet a second time, Napoleon is back to normal.

“Well, unless you’d like come and watch, you might want to find something else to do for the next few hours,” Napoleon says, his tone deceptively light, acting as though he hadn’t just tried to offend Illya again.

Illya stares at him, trying to figure out what Napoleon is thinking. He wants to push, but he doesn't want to know what opinions Napoleons might be hiding, which means he has to drop the matter. And no, Illya does not want to watch. But it doesn’t feel right letting Napoleon walk away either. Why can’t Napoleon just make the reservation alone instead of dragging along some innocent, beautiful, civilian? He’ll only be putting people in unnecessary danger. It’s irresponsible. It’s one more unknown factor to worry about, and if things go wrong the civilian may end up getting hurt. Napoleon doesn’t need to take someone with him who is not Illya.

“You will only be making things more difficult,” Illya says. ”We shouldn’t be involving others.”

“It’s a dinner, Illya,” Napoleon says with that longsuffering frown. “I’ll be making contact and arranging a meeting. They are not going to shoot at me. I promise.”

“It’s not safe.”

Napoleon watches him with tired eyes, and sighs. “You know I’ll look even more suspicious if I turn up alone.”

Napoleon is right, but Illya still wants to argue, except he can’t, because Napoleon is right. A single diner, no matter how handsome and well dressed, is going to attract more attention than a pair of lovers. Illya bites his tongue, and takes a deep breath.

“So we’re good?” Napoleon says.

There’s a soft smile on Napoleon’s face, with makes Illya’s heart itch with… something. When Napoleon is looking at Illya like that, just the sight of him has the strange power of draining away Illya’s anger.

“Fine.”

 

-

 

Napoleon is right. Nothing happens during dinner, and Illya finds himself almost wishing for the opposite. Anything so he doesn’t have to listen to Napoleon flirting with the woman he’d picked up somewhere between the alleyway and the restaurant. Anya, Arya, whatever her name is supposed to be.

After parting ways with Napoleon, Illya had headed straight for Ile Saint Louis, and spent his free hours conducting reconnaissance, memorizing the streets and alleyways near the restaurant just in case they needed to make a fast exit. Close to the reservation time, he set himself up in the empty apartment UNCLE had provided across the street, and watched from behind drawn curtains as Napoleon led a gorgeous woman down the road and through the doors of the La Porte d’Argent.

In the present, he listens to the conversation through his headphones, and chews on a stale beef sandwich he bought an hour ago.

“You flatter me, Mr. Bright.” The woman giggles.

“Not in the slightest,” Napoleon replies, his voice in that smooth, even timbre that never fails to make his targets melt a little on the inside. “I like to think that the most beautiful things in life should always be appreciated.”

Illya rolls his eyes, and takes another angry bite of his food. Where does Cowboy come up with this?

There’s a soft huff of laughter. “Am I a thing to you, Mr. Bright?”

A pause, and Illya feels vindicated. Cowboy’s line has failed.

“You know that’s not what I mean, Asha.”

So that’s her name. Illya muses on it, tries it out, and thinks about the way it sounds on Napoleon’s lips, whether it would sound different, perhaps breathless, much later when they are both in Napoleon’s bed. Cowboy always takes these women back to the hotel.

Then, he catches himself, disgusted. What is he doing? What is he thinking? She is unimportant. What Napoleon decides to do in his spare time is unimportant.

“Are you ready to order? Sir? Ma’am?”

The waiter’s intervention saves Napoleon from further embarrassment, and saves Illya from obsessing any further over the events of Napoleon’s night that are still to come. He leans forward in his chair, pressing the headphones tighter over his ears, as he waits for what comes next.

“Oh, yes,” Napoleon says. “Tell me, is it true you serve a superb roast duck with a white cherry sauce?”

Illya holds his breath as Napoleon recites the coded line that is supposed to reveal himself as a person in need of Barath’s services. If things go badly…

“Yes. Yes that is correct, sir,” the waiter barely hesitates before he gives his reply, “But I’m afraid we are all out for today.”

“Well, in that case… I think I’ll go with the steak.”

It worked. Illya lets himself relax for a fraction, and leans back in his chair as the woman – Asha – places her order.

Half an hour later, he’s glaring at the restaurant’s front door, arms folded and teeth clenched, as Napoleon’s flirting turns blatantly sexual.

There’s the tinkling of cutlery. The sound of conversation that is already inane but made even more unbearable by the seductive tones of Napoleon’s voice, continues unabated despite Napoleon’s earlier stumble. Illya imagines the two of them, exchanging charged glances over the table. Dining on overpriced but delicious steak and seafood. Napoleon in that well-fitting navy suit, wearing the shirt that makes his blue eyes even more devastating than usual. He’d be smiling that smile that lights up his entire face, looking frustratingly handsome just like always. There are probably candles, and maybe a single elegant rose standing in a crystal vase between them. The flickering yellow light would cast shadows across Napoleon’s face, making the lines of his profile even sharper, the sparkle in his eyes even brighter.

He sits there, nursing the hunger in his heart, and thinks he should have bought more than just the one sandwich. Maybe then he’d feel better.

 

-

 

Illya is waiting on the street by the time Napoleon wanders back out of the restaurant with Asha on his arm. He watches from the shadows, eyes dark, as they make their way toward the main road and the hotel, ready to continue the evening.

Illya does not follow them, and instead he watches the surrounds of the restaurant, waiting for a tail to appear. Strangely enough, no one shows from within nearby buildings. He waits for a full ten minutes, until Napoleon is long gone, before he is certain that no one will appear. Then, he begins the trip back to the hotel, fighting back thoughts of the things Napoleon is doubtlessly now doing with the woman. He concentrates on putting one foot in front of the other, and on staying aware of his surroundings as he walks, and walks. If if he makes himself tired enough, Illya thinks, he’ll be able to work out this nervous energy that seems to have taken over his body.

It's not that he doesn't understand that his unwelcome preoccupation with Napoleon is dangerous, but his frustration is born from the fact that he can't seem to control his thoughts around Napoleon. His can feel its influence on his judgement, and wonders if Gaby hadn't been right when she said that things won't end well if he doesn't do something about the situation. But what is he supposed to do? Return to the KGB with his tail between his legs? His uncontrollable thoughts isn't something that will be fixed by conversation.

Paris has a different sort of charm in he night-time, but Illya doesn't notice any of it as he makes his way through its streets. He doesn’t make it back to the hotel until almost midnight, and he trudges up the stairs with heaviness in his heart he doesn’t want to understand. What Napoleon does with attractive women is none of Illya’s business. Where Illya's own thoughts fly to when Napoleon is around simply shouldn't matter. As long as it doesn’t get in the way of the mission, it is okay. Illya is okay.

He’s still trying to convince himself when he unlocks the door to his room, and finds Napoleon sitting inside.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to the wonderful [archadianskies](http://archadianskies.tumblr.com) for the tips on 60s fashion.

The lock opens with a click, and Napoleon adjusts his posture into something more dignified than a lazy sprawl. After first a long flight and then a stressful night of spying, exhaustion has long since settled over him, and he is very much prepared to turn in for the night. But work is supposed to come first, and to be completely honest, Napoleon is looking forward to Illya’s reaction after the extended session of passionate flirting the Russian had been forced to listen to. He closes the book in his lap, and lifts his water glass to his lips for a sip, raising his eyes as the door swings open.

Illya stands outside, staring at Napoleon with wide eyes looking just shy of dumbfounded. It’s a good look on him. Napoleon smiles in greeting, and manages to keep most traces of smugness away.

“I was starting to get worried,” Napoleon says. “What took you so long?”

Illya is still staring at him, like he doesn't know if he is hallucinating or if Napoleon is really sitting right there in his chair.

Napoleon’s grin slowly falls. “Peril? You okay?”

His words seem to snap Illya out of whatever strange mood he is trapped in. Illya blinks and looks away, self-conscious. Then he steps into the room, closes the door behind him, and heads for the bed, bending down to store his gear beneath it.

Napoleon is confused, but he takes the time to sip his drink and appreciate the view. No harm in looking.

Then Illya pulls out his gun, and the action catches Napoleon’s attention like a splash of cold water to the face. He watches as Illya places it on the bedside table.

“What are you doing here?” Illya says.

“I thought we should catch up,” Napoleon replies lightly. "You know, after the restaurant.”

“No one followed you. I waited, but no one came out.”

Napoleon raises an eyebrow. “Then why did it take you two hours to get back?”

Illya is silent for long moment. “I walked.”

Napoleon opens his mouth, then thinks better and shuts it again. Maybe Peril just wanted the exercise. Maybe he had a romantic encounter with a beautiful woman. It doesn’t matter.

“Here,” he says, shifting and pulling a slip of paper from the pocket of his suit jacket. He offers it to Illya, who looks at him once before taking it.

“8am, Jardin du Luxembourg, the meeting is arranged,” Napoleon says with a pleased smile. “Told you they wouldn’t shoot me.”

“Give it time,” Illya replies, handing the note back to Napoleon who returns it to his pocket.

 _Ever the paranoid one_. Napoleon shakes his head slightly in disapproval, rising from his seat. Illya is taking off his jacket, and instead of paying attention to any more things he shouldn't be, Napoleon wanders over to the only window in the room, and looks out into the alleyway.

“Is it really too much to hope that we can sort out this mess over drinks and a cordial chat?” he says, staring at the sandstone wall that is the only view aside from the garbage cans far below. Everything is dim under the moonlight.

“You can hope.”

And we all know how reality likes to trample all over something as audacious as that, Napoleon thinks, placing his glass on the windowsill. He hadn’t even known the hotel offered rooms this tiny. “This room is suffocating, how do you stand it?”

“I like it,” Illya’s voice sounds from behind, “Less places for threats to hide.”

“You mean less room to maneuver if a fight ever breaks out,” Napoleon says with a frown, turning to examine his partner.

“I prefer to neutralize threats instead of running away from them,” Illya says, watching him with dark eyes. His hair is flat from where the hat sat, Napoleon wants to reach out and ruffle it. “When did they give you the piece of paper?”

“Came with the receipt,” Napoleon says. “I have to say though, for being the front of an identity forger, the food was incredible. Though the company may have helped.”

He’s poking fun at Illya, and the way the Russian’s lips twist in annoyance improves Napoleon’s mood immensely. Yet instead of parrying with a comment about Napoleon’s lack of professionalism and his continued endangerment of civilians, the light recedes from Illya’s eyes.

“You should leave,” Illya says, his voice suddenly cold. “There’s a meeting tomorrow. Try not to stay up too late.”

Napoleon’s heart sinks. Illya is tense again. He can’t be that disappointed about the food. “Something I said?”

“It’s not good to keep a woman waiting.”

Oh. Oh is that what Illya is hung up over? Napoleon takes the time to study Illya, and notes the stiffness in the Russian’s posture, how he points his body away, refusing to face Napoleon or to meet his gaze. If Napoleon doesn’t know better, he might almost say Illya is jealous.

“I sent her home.”

Illya shifts, and cautiously looks at Napoleon, as though he’s trying to assess his honesty. Napoleon stands there, innocent as a flower for all intents and purposes, and lets himself be observed.

Then Illya looks away, and the tension visibly fades from the lines of body. His lips twitch imperceptibly, like he wants to smile. Napoleon groans on the inside. Is Illya… happy? Napoleon wants to think that it’s envy at work. It’s such an easy answer, the simplest way to label what just took place. But Illya can just as easily be pleased with the knowledge that this time, Napoleon thought to put the mission ahead of personal pleasure. It’s only been two weeks, and Illya won’t know that as Napoleon has lost his usual cadence when it comes to pursuing and bedding members of the fairer sex. He won’t know how thoughts of Illya will always surface, and disrupt perfectly good evenings before they can come to fruition. How would Illya react if Napoleon tells him? Not that he can ever tell him.

Recently, Napoleon flirts more out of habit than interest, and he’s still not quite sure how to fix the problem. Illya’s idea is a good one. Napoleon can’t stay. Any longer and he’ll be overanalyzing Illya’s responses and lack thereof until he drives himself up the wall.

Illya doesn’t way a word, and it’s suddenly just as hard for Napoleon to meet his gaze. It a sign for him to leave, and Napoleon makes for the door.

“Well,” Napoleon says, turning too Illya one last time with a friendly smile, “see you tomorrow.”

The door closes behind him, yet Napoleon can still feel the force of Illya gaze, burning into his back.

 

-

 

After a pleasant night of mostly dreamless sleep (he only wakes up once, something about being strapped to a chair and knives and terror and being certain Illya is about to kill him), Napoleon is refreshed, dressed, and sitting on a park bench in the Luxembourg Gardens, waiting for their target to appear.

Today, he’s opted for a darker suit, loosely fitted with enough room to hide a few weapons, just in case things don’t go according to plan. His Beretta sits snugly in its holster, and his favorite combat knife is strapped to his calf, ready should they be needed. Before him, the Medici fountain merrily sprays water into the air. It is truly picturesque, and Napoleon wonders if he might find a painting or postcard from somewhere as a souvenir, even just for Illya or Gaby. He’s arrived early, as good manners requires. Though he can’t see Illya, Napoleon is sure that the Russian is setting up somewhere nearby, ready to listen in on the conversation that is about to occur. Napoleon’s instructions had come with details of this exact meeting place. There is even a convenient park bench right behind him, facing the opposite direction. It’s as though this location is specifically designed for clandestine meetings.

He wants to enjoy the pleasant morning, but the park itself provides little in terms of distractions. He doesn't want to go back to dwelling on his confusion, yet Napoleon’s thoughts turn and settle again on his partner.

Napoleon is under no illusion that Illya doesn’t care for him. They are both long past the point of that particular pretense. But the question that continues to linger is exactly _how much_  Illya cares. It’s not enough that Illya seems ready to die for him, no, but Napoleon wants to know the reason why the Soviet agent is so willing. Napoleon knows his own reasons. They are the same reasons why every other moment when they’re together, Napoleon reads romantic overtures into Illya’s actions that must only be platonic. No matter how much he tells himself to let things go, he keeps seeing signals, staring, motions full of longing a different breed from what Napoleon has perfected for use on his targets. Every day, it’s becoming more and more difficult to know just how much of it is real, and just how much is simply wishful thinking.

Could Illya really have been jealous last night? Napoleon's thoughts linger on his memory of Illya, who had stared at him with intense, unreadable eyes. Part of Napoleon wants to take the risk, he can just _ask_. Speak aloud the questions that have been floating at the edges of his mind. That way, he can know for sure, be certain that he is imagining interest where none exist. 

He might have done by now, if not for the one thing Napoleon knows with assurance, the fact that Illya hates them, _those_  men, delinquent, other, homosexual. The thought that Napoleon might not consider it a sacrifice to bed an attractive, albeit male, mark had never even crossed Illya's mind. It brings Napoleon's own selfishness to light, but at the same time, he now has a clear understanding of just where Illya stands when it comes to men who choose to bed other men. Asking may be the equivalent of putting a loaded gun into Illya’s hand and pointing it at Napoleon.

He has seen men jailed, court-martialed, beaten bloody by the same people they once called best friends. If there is anything Napoleon learned in his years in the army, it is the importance of discretion, of compartmentalization, of burying whatever parts of him necessary to stay alive. He can’t trust Illya, who wears his hate so openly on his chest, to not be one of them. Napoleon won’t give anyone else the power to destroy him, won’t give Sanders more reasons to choke him with this leash. This situation might be unpleasant, but he will tolerate it, just like he has tolerated his past ten years of forced labor.

The sound of footsteps breaks through his reverie, and a body settles onto the park bench behind Napoleon. The intrusion is almost welcome after the dark turn his thoughts had taken. Napoleon pushes aside his frustration and locks it behind a polite smile.

“How can we help you, Mr. Solo?” The voice of this new visitor is dry, male, middle-aged, with a French accent instead of Hungarian. This isn’t Barath.

“Your people work fast,” Napoleon comments, impressed. They already have his true identity.

“We have our ways. Tell me, what can we do for a CIA spy?”

Napoleon mentally adds ‘resourceful’ to his assessment. It’s been ten years, but he thought he was doing a good job of keeping the truth a secret.

“You seem to already know a lot about me,” Napoleon says, “May I have the pleasure of knowing who I am addressing?”

“You can call me Pierre.”

The name is almost definitely fake. But Napoleon is happy to take what he’s given.

“Well, Pierre,” Napoleon says, scanning the garden, still the image of the daring spy. “Trust me when I say that I don’t mean any offence, but I would much prefer to be speaking to your boss.”

“I’m afraid he’s a busy man, Mr. Solo,” Pierre replies smoothly. “To start with, you can discuss your business with me.”

“Your boss is the paranoid sort, huh?”

“Usually, we find, for good reason. Do you have a purpose for contacting us, or should I consider this a waste of time?”

Pierre does not enjoy Napoleon’s attempts to fish for information, a shame.

“Don’t be too hasty. I can respect some healthy paranoia, it’s a requirement to survive in this business, after all.”

Pierre pauses. “Then let us discuss business.”

Napoleon paints on a smirk.

“Since you know I’m a CIA spy, you might also know that I was coerced into this arrangement. To be honest, I am not particularly happy about the situation,” Napoleon says, remembering the last time his past had been the point of a similar discussion. “As a friend once told me, I’m trapped on the end of a very long leash, held by a very short man.”

The weather this morning is very nice, Napoleon thinks. Blue skies as far as the eye can see.

“And… you desire our help to address this?”

“If your help comes in the form of new identities, as well as reliable sets of travel papers to go with them, then yes. I am sick of being manipulated by the CIA like a dog.”

They say the best performances are inspired by truths, and as pleasant the past few months have been with Gaby and Illya’s company, Napoleon can't claim to be lying.

“Why now, Mr. Solo? After ten years?”

“You know, I ask myself the same,” Napoleon says. “They have me working with Soviets, can you believe that? I should have done this years ago.” He scoffs for dramatic effect.

“You’re already two thirds of the way there, are you sure you want to throw it all away?”

“You really do know a good deal about me, don’t you?” Napoleon says, his good humor starting to give way to worry. “Then you should also know that people in this business tend to be quite poor at keeping their word.”

It had been smart for Napoleon to take over this assignment from Illya after all, and relief makes Napoleon feel slightly better about his selfishness. Illya’s cover wouldn’t have stood a chance against a group with this level of resources. For an identity forger, Barath’s ties run far and deep. It is an unexpected concern, but Napoleon is good at improvisation.

“The Americans claim to be the good guys,” Pierre says, “Do you truly trust your countrymen so little?”

“When you’ve been in this line of work as long as I have,” Napoleon says calmly, “You learn just how important it is to not trust anyone.”

Pierre is silent for a moment. “I think I understand your needs,” he says. “We’ll be in touch, Mr. Solo.”

Then, the man leaves. Napoleon watches as water falls from the fountain, not bothered to pay attention to the man disappearing into the distance. Illya will make sure to follow him. The ball is now in Barath's court, and all Napoleon can do is wait until he is contacted, which mean he has an indeterminate period of waiting ahead, time with which to do whatever he wants.

 

-

 

With his mission put on hold for the time being, Napoleon takes a long walk through the gardens and north through the streets of the sixth arrondissement. He intends to clear his head, and ends up wandering up the shaded paths along Boulevard Saint-Germain, until he finds himself in deep within the laneways of Saint-Germain-des-Prés. Here, the paved streets are dotted with quaint stores and cafes, selling everything from food to furniture to handcrafted fashion. As he walks, he spots hints of a darker side to the city, secluded entrances to familiar underground bars, which make promises of smoke, jazz and hard liquor, among other forbidden pleasures. Another time, and he will be returning to these places in earnest, but now, his only curiosity revolves around Illya, and how he might react if Napoleon brought him to places like these.

Napoleon buys an interesting hand-loomed scarf made of shot silk from a tiny boutique, which shimmers silver one moment and white in another. In a second hand bookstore, he finds a tattered hand-bound copy of French poetry, which he decides is perfect for Illya to develop his more sensitive proclivities. Napoleon spends enough time weaving through the streets and ducking in and out of stores until he’s sure that he’s either lost or thoroughly bored any tail that has been put on him. At lunchtime, he eats at a small café, offering a flirting smile to a lovely blonde who sits at a nearby table. She is surrounded by an assortment of people who seem to be either poets or artists, still clinging to the bohemian life in a sector that is steadily becoming bourgeois in both manner and reputation. The woman glances at him only once, frowns, and then pays him no more attention.

Napoleon ducks his head, and turns his focus back to his food.

 

-

 

It’s nearing three by the time he gets back to the hotel, nursing a bruised ego from yet another rejection. Gaby is not in her room, and Napoleon leaves the scarf on her coffee table in the hope that she’ll like it. Illya, curiously, is also absent. Feeling slightly worried, Napoleon heads to his room with the book of poetry. 

Perhaps they went out together, Napoleon thinks, hoping Illya hadn’t landed himself into trouble. Should he go out looking? Napoleon has no idea where to even start the search.

Napoleon is distracted as unlocks the door to his hotel room. As the door swings open with a creak, it reveals Illya, sitting in a chair and facing the door with his gun pointed right at him. Napoleon takes one look and sighs. He probably deserves this for breaking into Illya’s room last night.

“How long did it take you this time?” he jokes, walking inside. He puts down the wrapped book and takes off his jacket. Napoleon still remembers Rome, when Illya’s lack of lock-picking skills had almost gotten them caught. Then there’s Prague, and Barcelona.

“It’s simple cylinder lock,” Illya grumbles, putting away his weapon. “Took me no time.”

“I should hope so,” says Napoleon, grabbing a coat rack from the closet to hang up his clothes. “Guess you don’t need any more lessons.”

Illya huffs. After Barcelona, when Illya’s delay had cost them critical seconds which could have saved them an entire car chase, Napoleon had sat him down and spent a solid two days training him on how to properly pick a lock – without using his unreliable Soviet technology.

“So, did Pierre lead you anywhere interesting?” he says, at the same time as Illya opens his mouth.

“Where have you been?”

Napoleon turns, confused, and glances down at his cufflinks. “These didn’t tell you?” he says, wiggling his wrist.

Illya looks at the cufflinks, and then at Napoleon. “The scanner broke.”

“Oh.” Napoleon frowns to hide his smile because Illya is pouting. “How did that happen?”

“I don’t know. Gaby is not in her room.”

Then they’ll ask her when she gets back. Napoleon nods, and goes about undoing first his tie, and then the top buttons of his shirt. He looks toward Illya, and Illya immediately looks away with a suspiciously guilty face, like he’s been staring.

Napoleon files away the observation, and tells himself not to overthink the meaning. But what if Illya really is interested, but doesn’t want to act on it? Illya hates that kind of men, so naturally he would also hate any behavior or urges that would mark him as one of them. Is that too far-fetched?

“You didn’t answer me,” Illya says again, “Where did you go?”

Illya has that kicked puppy expression on his face, and Napoleon inexplicably feels cruel for abandoning him. Even though that’s not what happened at all.

“I went for a walk around Paris,” he says, reaching for the book in the hope it will cheer Illya up, or at least get rid of the grumpiness. “Got you a present.”

He tosses the package across the room, and Illya reaches out to catch it, bewilderment in his eyes. It does something strange to Napoleon, which he chooses not to think hard about. He’s supposed to be moving on. That means not turning into a puddle whenever Illya makes stupidly endearing faces. He’ll get the hang of it, eventually.

Illya unties the string and unwraps the book very carefully, making sure not to rip the brown paper packaging. Napoleon watches, just a little smitten. 

Then, Illya picks up the book, reads the title, and freezes.

“Peril?” Napoleon says, disturbed by the reaction. Does Illya dislike poetry?

Illya looks up at him, and there is fury in his eyes. Napoleon’s mind blanks. When Illya speaks, each word is ground out with monumental effort.

“Why did you get me love poetry?”

“Is that what it is?” Napoleon says, intrigued. French is genuinely not a language he understands much of, yet.

Illya’s glare turns glacial, and Napoleon can only stare, caught by the knowledge he’s done something stupid. The road to hell is paved with good intentions. He hadn’t expected an impulse purchase to come with these sorts of ramifications.

“Do not play games with me, Solo. You know what this is.”

“No, I did not,” Napoleon says, trying to save himself, and a little desperately at that. “If that’s what it is, then you can read it to Gaby.”

The ice melts a little at the mention of her name, and all Napoleon feels is a strange mix of relief and jealousy.

“If y-”

If he what, Napoleon will never know. The sound of footsteps, too heavy to be Gaby’s, intrude on the moment. It comes to a stop outside Napoleon’s door. Illya’s words cut off, and they both still, hands moving toward their guns.

Something is slid beneath the door, and then, four short, sharp knocks sound.

Napoleon and Illya exchange a glance, and Napoleon moves instantly toward the door, pulling out his gun. He steps over the envelope on the floor and into the corridor. Their visitor has already disappeared from sight. Napoleon moves down quickly toward the stairs, giving chase.

The same footsteps, sharp against stone. Napoleon counts the amount of steps the other man takes as he follows him down level after level, racing to catch up in time. But then, the footsteps disappear as the man hits the carpeted lobby. When Napoleon finally makes it, hiding his gun behind him, he sees no disappearing shadows, and no suspicious persons loitering about. Unwilling to give up, he dashes through the front doors of the hotel and out onto the streets, but still, he sees only pedestrians, going about their day.

They’ve missed him, whoever it is that found Napoleon’s hotel room. Napoleon curses under his breath.

His anger simmering inside, Napoleon returns to his room. Illya is still there, staring at whatever it is Barath’s man had left them in the envelope. When Illya sees Napoleon standing at the door, he lowers his gun and hands Napoleon a card, his expression somber.

An invitation, to a gala being held at the Louvre this evening.

“Huh,” Napoleon says, “I didn’t bring a tuxedo.”

 

-

 

Napoleon does have a bow tie, however, and a tailored black suit, which he is forced to wear due to the short notice. After an intense debate about how there’s no way either of Illya’s partners can smuggle him into the gala when their invites don’t allow plus ones, Napoleon bullies him into agreeing to stay outside with an escape vehicle, just in case.

They end up waiting in Gaby’s room, playing game after game of chess (and Napoleon doesn’t win, not even once). Gaby doesn’t return until barely an hour before the gala is due to begin, her hair and makeup already perfectly done, likely by beauticians from a nearby salon. She has her evening dress with her, a stunning white Dior sheath gown that Illya immediately commandeers in order to scrutinize.

Gaby pours herself a drink, also one for Napoleon, and they watch together as Illya examines the textured silk, the stitching, and the black beaded yoke overlay. It’s been months since Gaby’s had a reason to dress up in designer clothing for a mission, and Illya is arguably more excited than any of them of the fact. There’s something incredibly charming about Illya when he gets like this, so intently serious over Gaby’s fashion choices.

Napoleon can’t take his eyes off him.

Five minutes later, Illya sets down the garment, satisfied.

“This is good,” he says, “You have accessories, right? Cream kid leather gloves, and… round onyx and gold earrings, I think.”

“My UNCLE issue ones just look like pearl earrings.” Gaby supplies, uninterested.

Illya frowns. “It will have to do.”

“Could you take a look at Illya’s scanner?” Napoleon says, turning his gaze from Illya to Gaby, “He says it’s broken.”

“Hm, pass it here.”

Napoleon reaches into the bag by his chair, and hands it to her. She puts down her glass and turns it in her hands, flicking the switch on and off. There’s no response.

“Tools please.”

Napoleon turns to do as he’s bid, but Illya is already walking over with Gaby’s kit, taken from her luggage. The dress lies across the bed, forgotten for the time being.

Gaby sits down at the dining table, and Napoleon and Illya stand on either side, watching in fascination as she swiftly dismantles the outer shell of the scanner. Then, she starts examining and prodding its insides.

“Okay, I think the problem is mechanical,” Gaby says eventually, “A bit here has snapped off, see? I think someone has been turning it off and on too much, and too roughly.”

She doesn’t quite point fingers, but Illya shrinks away, walking over to Gaby’s wardrobe.

“So, can you fix it?” says Napoleon.

“I can probably jerry-rig it, but it’s a delicate part and it’ll take time, which we don’t have right now,” she says. “Also, I’d prefer not to ruin my manicure just yet. Just try not to get kidnapped.”

“I’ll… do my best,” Napoleon says with a frown.

“You can wear this coat.”

Napoleon turns around to find Illya standing with a horrendous violet evening coat in his hands. He’s seen it before, somewhere, but can’t immediately remember the brand. Balenciaga? Givenchy? The thing has crystals, and sequins, and _rhinestones_.

“It won’t match,” he says.

Gaby and Illya turn toward him with matching glares.

Napoleon lips pull into a smile. He’ll never get tired of their reactions.

 

-

 

The gala at the Louvre is a charity event, being held across three of the museum’s major galleries. There is a banquet table filled with delicious foods, and a string quartet playing soft classical pieces. Napoleon stands in a room filled to the brim with society’s upper crust, and his hand has never itched this badly. Everywhere he looks, there is jewellery made from diamond, sapphire, ruby, bracelets and necklaces worth more than what entire families can make in a year. He also can’t stop thinking about how easy it would be to just slip into an adjoining gallery and maybe take home with him a classical masterpiece.

He’s done it before.

It is an absolute nightmare, but Napoleon plasters on his most charming smile, and mingles easily with the Parisian elite, searching for the man who invited him here tonight. Gaby is here somewhere too, likely already in the company of her target Élodie Beaumont. Illya is outside and close by, listening in on their conversations and ready to be their getaway driver should the need arise.

It’s been fifteen minutes, and Napoleon still can't find his target. There is no one present who matches the photo provided by UNCLE, and so he waits. Napoleon lifts a few things, here and there, just to satisfy his urges. They’re mostly rings or small bracelets, things that can be easily hidden and are likely to be lost. He is eying a beautiful emerald on the hand of a wealthy comtesse when he spots Gaby out of the corner of his eye, chatting with a woman dressed in a beautiful peach gown. She must be Élodie Beaumont, Napoleon thinks, as he watches with curious eyes.

He’d never gotten around to reading the woman’s file, and Napoleon shouldn’t know what she looks like, so why does it feel like he’s seen her before?

Napoleon looks away into the crowd, trying to remember where he had met someone with the same face as Beaumont. Instead of an answer, he finds a new question in none other than Illya Kuryakin, standing heads and shoulders above the rest of the crowd dressed in a white waiter’s suit, a platter of champagne on one hand.

_Why couldn’t he just stay in the car?_

Napoleon is more surprised by how little surprise he feels.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter deals with some implied dubious consent, and contains violence. Details can be found in the end notes.

Illya has never liked crowds. There are too many unknown factors. When you put so many strangers in one space, it is next to impossible to know who might be about to slip a knife into your back. But despite his personal misgivings, showing inappropriate signs of discomfort when undercover is something that has long since been trained out of him. Illya schools his features with the polite smile expected of wait staff. The outfit offers him some camouflage, and most people’s eyes simply pass over him like he is part of the background.

He’s scanning the crowd for two familiar figures when a voice sounds from behind him.

“Peril, what are you doing here?”

Illya turns, and Napoleon is there, having materialized out of thin air with accusatory eyes. Illya runs his eyes over him once, notes the UNCLE-issue cufflinks at Napoleon’s wrists, and then meets his gaze. Cowboy looks very handsome in his suit, even if his tie is slightly crooked. It would be very easy to just reach out and fix it.

Illya’s hand doesn’t so much as twitch.

“Surveillance,” he says, holding out the platter stiffly. “Champagne, monsieur?”

“Merci.” Napoleon swipes a flute with a tight, but still amiable smile. “You’re supposed to be in the car,” he continues in a hiss.

“I can’t be your backup if I’m stuck outside when something happens,” Illya replies, playing his part and looking around for more attendees without alcohol in their hands.

“Well now you’ve gone and jinxed it.”

“It’s called being prepared. I wouldn’t expect an American to understand.”

Instead of the usual riposte, Illya’s remark is met with silence. With slight concern, Illya looks away from the crowd to find Napoleon staring at something across the room. He follows Napoleon’s gaze and sees Gaby standing in the corner, deep in conversation with Élodie Beaumont. The heiress looks even more stunning than in the photo, with her styled blond hair, light blue eyes, and beautiful Courrèges evening dress. The two are standing close, with smiles on both their faces. Things seem to be going well.

Illya looks back, and Napoleon is still staring, his brow in a light furrow as though troubled. Illya hides a frown himself. He should be amused by Cowboy’s disappointment. But the way Beaumont holds Napoleon’s attention makes Illya uncomfortable for a reason he can’t place.

“You’d be talking to her if you hadn’t changed missions,” he says. Cowboy should learn to accept the consequences of his actions.

Napoleon looks at him, and there is sympathy in his expression, like a man about to spring a trap on an oblivious animal. Illya frowns, bristling without knowing why.

“I can still talk to her, you know,” Napoleon says, “I’m a guest.”

Napoleon returns the empty flute to Illya’s platter, and turns to walk through the crowd toward Beaumont. Illya is left to stand there and watch, platter in hand.

To think, that for a crazy moment, Illya had expected Napoleon to behave like a professional.

 

-

 

Being a good agent, Illya takes a detour through the crowds and makes his way toward his team, intent on monitoring the situation. He plays the part of the waiter with ease, and loses two more flutes of champagne to thirsty guests by the time he makes it around the room. Napoleon is already chatting with both women, and Gaby’s smile is forced, clearly unhappy with the interference. They are supposed to stay away from each other’s targets and give them each room to work. But when has Napoleon ever been able to resist a beautiful woman? It’s predictable, it’s unprofessional, and it grates on Illya’s nerves. 

He closes the distance, and then turns to face the crowd, an overwhelmed waiter trying to catch their breath. They’re not in the hotel anymore, and this sort of contact is not only unnecessary, but a danger to all of them. If Barath sees them and makes the right assumption, then this entire mission will become a waste.

“I could have sworn I saw you out on the street just earlier today,” Napoleon says, taking the tired route of ‘haven’t I met you before?’ to earn the woman’s interest. “The Café du Étoiles?”

“I’m afraid you must be mistaken, Mr. Bright,” Beaumont replies, in an accent that is closer to American than her native French. Illya keeps his eye on the crowd, and though he can’t see her expression, the confusion in her tone paints a vivid image. “I’ve been at home all day today, and I don’t think I know of this café you speak of. Perhaps you met someone who looks similar?”

“Or maybe Mr. Bright just doesn’t have particularly good eyesight.” Gaby interjects, and Illya can imagine the dangerous glint in her eyes. “Please, do excuse us.”

Gaby makes a valiant effort to save both herself and Beaumont from Napoleon’s attention, but the clack of heeled shoes against marble stops abruptly with the introduction of a new voice into the conversation.

“Ms. Beaumont, Mr. Solo, what a pleasure it is to see you.”

Middle-aged man. Hungarian accent. Who knows Napoleon by name. It’s Barath. Illya’s reserved smile freezes as the last flute of champagne is taken from his platter. This is the last thing they need, Napoleon and Beaumont are not supposed to know each other, and with Gaby exposed like this… Cowboy just had to approach the woman.

“Mr. Solo?” Beaumont’s voice sounds, bewildered, “I thought you said Mr. Bright?”

Illya turns minutely, his jaw tight as he observes the greying hair and the pale eyes of Napoleon's target. The man’s taste matches his wealth, and cuts a dashing figure in a tuxedo. More than just an identity forger, Barath is also a dangerous predator, and Illya can’t leave now. Yet if he stands still for any longer he’ll be risking his cover. 

Illya swallows a curse and stays where he is, praying for someone in the party to move.

“Ah, yes of course,” Barath says, not missing a beat as he turns to Napoleon with a pleasant smile, “It is my mistake.”

Napoleon, for some reason, looks almost charmed. Barath is handsome to look at, perhaps, but his manner is only appealing if you like someone with a roguish sort of demeanor. He eyes Napoleon with open interest that, Illya notices with growing unease, is being mirrored in Napoleon’s eyes.

Cowboy doesn’t have to go that far, Illya thinks, stamping down on his frustration. Napoleon is charming enough on his own. There is no need to put on a show of enjoying Barath’s depraved attentions.

Someone taps Illya on the shoulder, and his anger flares. Reflexively, he almost takes out the intruder with the platter in his hands. Then he remembers his cover, and turns around with a cold smile.

The catering manager, a tiny mouse of a man with thinning, slicked back hair and a twisting frown, stands before Illya with furious eyes.

“What are you doing? Why are you standing here?” the man hisses in rapid French, “Get back to the kitchen and get a new tray. I’m not paying you to stand around.”

Illya’s hands tighten around the platter, fighting the impulse to lash out against this inconvenience. If he breaks cover and makes a scene in front of their targets, it’ll be over for all of them.

He looks back one more time at Napoleon and Gaby. The America is dominating the conversation with bright eyes and his trademark smile. Gaby, on the other hand, has a look somewhere between confusion and concern as she listens attentively. Barath and Beaumont clearly know each other, and that might mean something, or nothing.

At first, it had seemed like a good idea, to take out a late arriving waiter and turn up as his replacement. He hates the feeling of being kept away from the action, unable to step in immediately if something should threaten Napoleon or Gaby. The scurrying shape of the waiter running across the car park had seemed like the perfect opportunity for Illya to insinuate himself into the situation. He had given up his surveillance equipment for the luxury of physical presence, but now, he is starting to regret his decision.

Illya turns back, nods to the manager, berated. Then he starts to make his way out of the room, leaving his partners behind with a very dangerous man. If he hurries, he can still get back in time to keep an eye on them both.

 

-

 

The kitchen is a hectic mess.

The moment Illya steps inside, the sous chef is shouting at him to retrieve the first aid kit. Some young kitchen hand had nearly cut off his own finger with a meat cleaver. Blood is splattered across the benches and a fair portion of the roast is ruined.

With no better choice, Illya stumbles around the unfamiliar kitchen, dodging frantic staff as he opens and closes cupboards, trying to find something he doesn’t know the location of. The chef continues to scream at him, until he finally accepts Illya’s incompetence and sends another kitchen hand to retrieve the things they need. Furious, the chef hurls abuse as Illya dashes toward the table of prepared food, insulting everything from his height to his ancestry. By the time Illya finally escapes back into the gala with a tray of crostini, his heart pounding and his ears ringing, Gaby and Napoleon are nowhere to be seen.

Illya wanders through every room of the gala, purposefully searching through the crowd of well-dressed people as the food disappears from his platter piece by piece. His worry grows steadily until, in a side wing, beneath a spectacular Caravaggio, he finds Gaby and Beaumont chatting easily in a circle of women. The first time, even though the American should be easy to spot with that distracting smile and those striking eyes, Illya misses Napoleon. So he turns around and makes the same trip again.

The anxiety that comes with not knowing where Napoleon is claws at Illya relentlessly. Illya has been gone for ten minutes at best, and if he’s lucky, Napoleon is still faking interest in Barath. They only need to know what type of plans the Hungarian makes to help American traitors, and it should be easy to get what they need.

As Illya moves from room to room, his search for Napoleon grows increasingly desperate. There are only men who look similar, but all are too tall or too short or the wrong build, none of them Napoleon himself. Discomfort transforms into worry, and threatens to grow into fear. Napoleon is an experienced agent, Illya thinks, trying to control his racing heart. He knows what he’s doing. As unlikely as it is, Illya might have just missed him again.

By the time he makes it back to where Gaby is, the truth is twisting around his throat and choking the air from the room.

Napoleon is gone, and Barath is with him

 

-

 

“Really? I had no ide-“

“Ma’am?” Illya says, uncaring of the fact that he is cutting Gabby off mid-sentence. The women pause at his interruption, turning to regard him with a mix of confusion and interest. Illya ignores their attention, and moves in closer to Gaby. “There’s someone who needs to see you urgently.”

Gaby considers him for a moment, exasperation flickering across her expression, before she turns to back to the group with an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, but it seems like there’s someone I need to speak to.”

The women nod and give her leave. Élodie Beaumont looks at them curiously, and Illya ducks his head as he pulls Gaby away toward the nearest door.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Gaby says in a harsh whisper, as soon as they’re alone in the hallway.

“Cowboy is missing.”

Gaby blinks. “What do you mean he’s missing?”

“He’s not at the gala anymore. Barath is also gone. What were the four of you talking about?”

“Nothing, it was just small talk. He said it was nice to meet us, then we talked about the charity auction, and about the art.”

“He didn’t mention taking Napoleon anywhere? Or make any sort of threat?”

“No, he was a gentleman.” Gaby sounds far less worried than she should be, and it only makes Illya’s mood even worse.

He takes a deep breath, and looks up and down the corridor quickly, double checking there is no one around to overhear them.

“You need to help me find them.”

The glare Illya fixes on Gaby is determined, and Gaby’s mouth falls open slightly when she realizes what he wants from her. She looks over at the doorway toward where Beaumont is. Illya understands, she’s only barely started her mission, but there are more urgent things.

“You will have another chance. Cowboy is in danger.”

Irritated, yet resigned, Gaby turns back to him, and nods. “Fine.”

They escape together through the side exit, Illya’s white suit jacket discarded, and Gaby with her heels dangling from one hand.

 

-

 

The entire drive back to the hotel, Illya’s head buzzes with rage and frustration. Had Napoleon left willingly? Or did Barath figure out his real reasons for showing up when he did? Illya should have just stayed in the car. Of all the times for Napoleon to just disappear, it has to happen when none of their tracking equipment is working.

“Grip that steering wheel any harder and you’re going to break it.”

Gaby’s voice sounds from next to him, still tinged with annoyance after losing the bid to drive the car. She is wearing a floor length gown and silk stockings. Illya is just as capable a driver, especially when he is mad.

Illya glances down at his hands, but doesn’t make any effort to loosen his grip. There are many things he would like to break at this very moment, and hopefully, it will happen when he is rescuing Cowboy from whatever mess he has landed himself in. Illya still remembers the way Barath had looked at Napoleon, and the thought of what intentions he might be hiding, of the fate Napoleon might have unwittingly trapped himself in, makes Illya’s blood curdle.

The traffic is infuriatingly slow. The rear bumper of a vehicle grows closer, and Illya swerves into a different lane, sparking the furious sound of car horns from behind. Beside him, Gaby’s arms shoot out to steady herself. Illya floors the gas pedal.

“Killing us both isn’t going to help Napoleon."

“We’ll be fine,” Illya replies through gritted teeth as they shoot through a red light, barely dodging an approaching truck in time. “Did you get anything out of Beaumont?”

“Well, you pulled me out before we really got anywhere,” Gaby says, “But she did bring up an empty property of hers on the Champs-Élysées.”

“And the previous tenant?”

“Found other lodgings, apparently.”

Not a lie, which means they still don’t know just how much Beaumont is aware of.

“You think she’s hiding something?”

“Considering she somehow knows Barath? I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Illya makes an illegal turn, and they’re finally on the same street as their hotel. Beaumont, Barath, and the missing secretary with stolen research. Two days in and they’re still fumbling in the dark, with no idea how everything might be connected. And now, Napoleon has gone and gotten himself effectively abducted, despite Gaby’s express orders not to.

On their left, their building draws close, the hotel lobby still lit up in the night. He pulls over and watches as Gaby scrambles to get out onto the sidewalk.

“Fix that scanner, and tell me where he is when I get back,” he shouts once the door slams, shifting gears and pulling away from the curb before the words have even left his mouth. In the rearview mirror, Gaby stares after him, incredulous.

“Illya! Where are you going?”

 

-

 

Illya has seen the state of the scanner, and Gaby had said it would take time to fix, time which Napoleon cannot afford. As much as he’d like to think the American is simply chatting with Barath over a fine scotch, it is just as likely he is currently being interrogated, or tortured, or worse. The predatory focus that had been in Barath’s eyes plays in Illya’s mind on again and again, and Illya’s teeth are clenched as he weaves the car in and out of traffic.

There are two places he can think of where Napoleon might be, and one is the mansion Pierre had disappeared into when Illya had tailed him earlier that day. The other is the restaurant Napoleon had visited last night, but Illya’s gut instincts tell him that the house is his best bet to find Napoleon. They have no better leads. If he fails, then there is still the scanner, which Gaby had better be fixing right this moment.

The exteriors of the buildings around him grow steadily more polished as he starts entering into a wealthy neighborhood. When he finally arrives at the street he is after, he slows the car, one hand on the steering wheel and the other fiddling with the knobs of the audio receiver. The headphones are pressed between his ear and his shoulder. He might not have a tracker anymore, but the audio bug Napoleon has on him should still be working. Illya has the frequency memorized. 

Near the back of the large mansion and under the cover of old willow trees, he slows to a stop and kills the engine. The static over the airwaves dissolves into distinct voices.

“Is that all you have for me?”

Napoleon’s voice, smooth as ever, sounds. Illya sags, relief washing over him, and he lets out a breath, his head hitting the back of his seat. He was right. This is where Napoleon had been taken, which must make the mansion one of Barath’s bases. Strangely enough, Napoleon sounds slightly out of breath, but there is no hint of pain or discomfort in his voice. Perhaps this is only a simple conversation. But why is it happening here?

“You still won’t tell me where you’ve hidden it?”

“You already know I’m a thief, Mr. Barath,” Napoleon says lightly, but his voice hitches on the last words, like something is hurting him.

Illya tenses, his hand moving to the door handle.

“Hm,” Barath’s voice sounds, slow, deliberate, “And I think thieves deserve punishment.”

Memories, long buried, push to the surface, overlapping with the scene playing out in Illya’s mind. Napoleon, helpless, drugged perhaps, or tied. Barath looming over him, about to take everything he wants.

There’s a barely suppressed gasp, and then a groan. A loud creak sounds as something hits something else with a heavy thump. A choked whimper, unmistakably Napoleon.

Illya sees red.

 

-

 

Illya doesn’t remember how he gets into the house. There is a door, unguarded, and then he hears them, more sounds, coming from deeper inside. A corridor, stairs, there is no one in his way, and he’s facing another door, one separating him from Napoleon, who is being hurt, right on the other side. His own ragged breathing is the only thing Illya can hear above the ringing in his ears. The rest of the world is in muted colors, irrelevant, insignificant. Illya has one focus. He slams his shoulder against the door, and it crashes open.

Barath, Napoleon, on the bed, almost naked.

“Get away from him!”

Illya doesn’t recognize his own voice as he barrels forward and pulls Barath from Napoleon’s body. He throws the man onto the ground, barely glimpsing the shock in Napoleon’s eyes before he is upon the monster who was hurting him.

“Illya!”

Fist strikes flesh, again and again, and his veins are still on fire. Barath’s arms are limp at his sides. More hands, grabbing at his shoulders. Illya’s anger flares and he twists, slamming an elbow into the ribs of the person daring to challenge him. He strikes the monster again, teeth bared with the thrill of violence, and then there is shouting. Illya’s world is knocked on its axis as someone hits him in a hard tackle.

A gunshot splits the night.

Splinters fly in all directions as Illya and his assailant land hard atop a wooden chair, crushing it beneath their weight. The pain hits Illya like another shot of adrenaline. His attacker still trying to hold him down, and Illya throws the man off with a yell. He staggers to his feet. 

Then, he recognizes the second person on the floor.

Red is blossoming on the arm of Cowboy’s shirt. The American curls in on himself atop the shattered furniture, pain etched in his features as he blinks hard, trying to collect himself.

The haze vanishes in the next breath, and Illya stands, frozen, his breathing still ragged from the force of his fury. Barath’s guards are spilling into the room, surrounding them both. There is shouting. Illya is forced to his knees, and then to the floor, but all he can see is Napoleon.

It is not gratitude that shines from behind those eyes, but hurt and fear.

Understanding, when it strikes him, is like a stake through the heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Detailed Warning: Illya overhears a conversation and certain sounds that leads him to conclude there is something nonconsensual going on. He does not react well, and proceeds to violently attack the man responsible. Napoleon is also caught in his fury.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the part where I give up all hope of having uniform chapter lengths. Warnings for violence and angst.

The blow lands across Napoleon’s face with a loud crack. Pain explodes from the point of contact and shoots down his spine, tearing through his consciousness. For a moment, everything is thrown into confusion.

Napoleon blinks, and the world shifts back into focus. There’s a high-pitched ringing in his ears. 

“I’ll ask you again, Mr. Solo,” says Barath, standing several feet away and comfortably surrounded by guards. “Why are you really here?”

The bruiser steps aside, and Napoleon raises his eyes, meeting Illya’s gaze across the room. The Russian stares at him with a terrible effort at detachment, his heaving chest and clenched jaw belying every shred of guilt and fury he might be feeling. They’re each tied to a chair, and deliberately positioned to display for each other whatever abuse is to come. Any show of support or care will only make things worse for them both. Illya should know this.

But despite everything, Napoleon still feels compelled to reassure Illya that everything will okay. Irritation twists inside him at the realization, because any feeling less than frustration undermines the righteous anger he is entitled to hold onto. The blame for their current circumstances rests squarely upon Illya’s shoulders. If the Russian had been able to put aside his hatred for one second to study the situation, if he had respected Napoleon’s craft enough to understand that he knows what he’s doing, they would already have the information they need. Napoleon doesn’t need any reminder of the useless, unsatisfying sentiments he had thoughtlessly labeled as love. 

He studies Illya a moment longer, waits for the flinch that comes when Illya understands the extent of Napoleon’s anger. Then, he turns his gaze toward Barath, determinedly ignoring the unnecessary twinge of guilt that arrives with vindication. His ribs are still sore from where Illya had first struck him and then thrown him onto broken furniture, and his arm burns from where the gunshot had ripped through his flesh.

“I’ve already told you,” Napoleon replies, the hoarseness in his voice ruining his attempt at smoothness, “I wanted out, and I needed a new identity to do it.”

“You really expect me to believe that? After this?” Barath gestures at Illya, who still has drying blood on his bruised knuckles.

The rich gold of afternoon light filters through cracked windowpanes around them. They’re close to the Seine, judging by the humid smell in the air. Around them, there are five guards, along with Barath, one arm in a sling and bandages around his head. Even after his injuries were treated, the man looks horrendous, with black and purple bruises marring his face. It had taken him all day before he finally recovered enough for this interrogation, and the ring Napoleon had lifted to enhance his interest is already back on his finger.

After Illya’s rampage, they had been thrown into separate vehicles and moved through the city. For the rest of the night and most of the day, Napoleon had been left in the complete blackness of a locked shipping container, fumbling to bandage his injury with strips ripped from his shirt. He had curled in a corner and dozed, just so he didn’t suffocate in the dark.

“I can’t control a rabid animal,” Napoleon says coldly, watching Illya as he speaks. He takes in the way the Russian tenses in his chair.

“And yet you saved his life when my men tried to put him down.”

“This may come as a surprise, but I don’t particularly enjoy death, especially when it’s unnecessary.”

“Then perhaps you’d like to tell me what your friend was doing, and why he entered my house and attacked me with the apparent intention of saving you.”

Illya stares at Barath now, and something almost like shame crosses his expression, an errant child caught for their misbehaviour. And that’s the kicker, isn’t it? Illya thought he was saving Napoleon, rescuing him from an unwanted sexual encounter for no reason other than the fact that his target is a man.

“You’ll have to ask him,” Napoleon says. 

Barath considers Napoleon’s response. Then, he turns to Illya, stepping closer and bending down to examine the Russian more closely. Ire flares behind Illya’s eyes at the proximity, and Napoleon sighs silently. A part of him wants to rescue Illya from their circumstances as much as he wants to punch him for creating it. 

If Sanders could see him now. Napoleon’s mind offers up the same kind of abuse he knows to expect, laughing at him for his sentimentality.

“So.” There’s a threat in Barath’s voice. “Do you have an answer?”

Illya stares at Napoleon, his emotions now locked away under the scrutiny of their captor. Napoleon stares back with practiced disregard. 

“You were hurting him,” Illya says quietly, after a long silence.

“Oh, was I?” Barath looks toward Napoleon, and there is a hint of confusion in his eyes. “Because I could swear your friend was enjoying himself, very much in fact.”

It was the right thing to say. Illya’s façade cracks, and a noticeable tremor goes through his body. 

“You are lying.” Illya’s voice is almost a snarl.

“Then why don’t we ask Mr. Solo?” Barath says, turning to Napoleon. “What exactly does pain sound like?”

Without warning, another blow lands across his face. Before Napoleon can recover, he is being struck again, in his head, his gut. Napoleon crumples, doubling over as the pain ripples through every part of him, knocking the air from his lungs, blurring everything in his vision. When it stops, he is gasping, his head bent and eyes squeezed shut.

“Hm, he seems a bit quiet today, hit him again.”

The blows come again, relentless, and when another strikes lands against his temple, Napoleon’s consciousness flickers. The next time it stops, he groans. The sound that forces its way out between gasps is far from an act.

“Now,” says Barath, turning to Illya again, expectant, “Is this along the lines of what you heard?”

Illya does not reply, and Napoleon can’t see his expression. He tries to catch his breath, blinks to clear his vision of the fuzziness that has fallen over it.

“Did you not hear my question?“ Barath continues, “Or should I ask for another demonstration?”

The interrogator raises his hand, and Napoleon tenses, his eyes closing, bracing himself for the next round.

“No!” Illya shouts, his chair scraping against the concrete floor as he lunges forward. “I don’t- I don’t know what I heard.”

“So it could have been pleasure?”

Illya freezes, silent, unable to betray himself a second time.

“Take out the knife.”

“No.” Illya’s words come almost immediately, and Napoleon looks tiredly at the sharp blade his interrogator has pulled from his belt. “Yes. Yes. Maybe.”

Barath sneers, mollified for the moment, and the knife does not swing down on Napoleon.

“So how about it? Were you having a good time, Mr. Solo?” Barath’s cruelty, backed by cold fury, is something Napoleon doesn’t want, but still somehow understands.

“I’ve had better,” he says with a small smirk, and earns another backhand for his insolence.

Barath regards him for a moment, before he seems to decide the strike is punishment enough. “How exactly did you hear the sounds of Mr. Solo’s pleasure?” he says, turning to Illya.

“I put a bug on him.” There are some things that are obvious enough to everyone present.

“And why is that?”

Illya hesitates. “To make sure he wouldn’t be hurt.”

Now they’re going in circles, Napoleon thinks through the swirling pain in his head. Perfect. 

“Well, you did an excellent job of that, Peril,” he says, patience finally broken.

Illya blinks, and hurt flashes behind his eyes. “I was trying to protect you,” he says quietly.

Napoleon is not one to miss a perfectly good set-up when it’s ready-made and waiting for him. He will use this, Illya’s pig-headed protectiveness.

“Protect me?” Napoleon laughs, “The only person I need protecting from is you.”

Barath looks between them, bemused yet obviously entertained. Napoleon prays Illya will catch on.

“You were meeting dangerous men.”

“Who only turned against me after you barged in and started attacking them! Every single time, you do this. Oslo, Istanbul, this is why I can’t fucking stand being around you anymore.”

Illya watches him for a beat, yet a sudden fear mingles with the uncertainty in his eyes. Napoleon stares back, his face a mask of anger even as confusion settles in his chest.

“What are you talking about?” says Illya.

In Oslo, they argued with each other until their captors were convinced Illya is on their side. In Istanbul, their bickering had confused their enemies so much they were both let go to better fight each other. Right now, the usual act of Cold War rivalry would never pass, not with Barath knowing what he does. But Illya has set up the perfect stage for an argument between ex-lovers, and Napoleon sure as hell is going to take advantage.

“Why do you think I’m trying to leave the CIA, Illya?” 

“You…”

“To get. Away. From you,” he continues, spite dripping from his words, “Because after everything we’ve gone through, you still can’t tell the truth about what we are.”

Understanding dawns behind Barath’s eyes. Napoleon’s goal is achieved. But Illya’s eyes, disconcertingly, are still clouded.

“We’re partners,” Illya says, his voice taking on a child-like quality. He is still trembling.

At the back of Napoleon’s mind, a small voice whispers. Why? What if? Look at him. Look at how he is reacting. You’re right, he wants you. Napoleon pays those thoughts no attention, there’s no time to dwell on improbabilities.

“Is that all?” Napoleon returns a cold challenge, mindful of their audience. 

Illya’s reactions are getting worrying, and Napoleon wonders if he shouldn’t have indulged the vindictive part of him in choosing this story to sell to their captors. Illya’s hate for homosexual men is no secret to either of them, and Napoleon can’t safely gauge how much of an insult it is for Illya to be likened to one. Illya now has that same terrifying intensity he did when Napoleon opened his door in Rome, carrying orders to kill. He wouldn’t need a gun to create destruction.

Behind Illya, a head rises from beneath the window, and two dark eyes peek at them both. A small hand waves at Napoleon.

Gaby. Napoleon plays his relief as the thrill of dominance. He knew he could count on her.

Illya’s breaths are coming faster. “I am not one of them,” he says slowly, refusing to meet Napoleon’s eyes.

Barath’s confusion has transformed entirely into amusement. He stands and watches, entirely passive.

“Of course not,” Napoleon replies, his voice flat. He lets his disappointment settle in his expression, allowing his eyes to darken, and his lips to press into a straight line. Then, he looks away, pained, defeated.

“I guess we’ll always have Ypres.”

Illya’s eyes snap toward Napoleon. As their established codes go, it doesn’t get any more explicit than this. The cavalry is here, time to move.

Napoleon smiles. His bonds, long since loosened, fall to the floor.

-

Gaby sets the factory on fire, and swears it’s an accident. 

Barath and his men, taken by surprise by both the sudden explosion of the factory doors and their captives’ unexpected mobility, stood no chance against the three of them. Illya, once free, unloaded all of his frustrations onto the men who were meant to guard them. It had been a painful sight to behold, even as Napoleon stood far, far away, careful to be not caught up in the radius of Illya’s rage a second time. Gaby, too, had watched Illya with morbid fascination as she rebandaged the wound on Napoleon’s arm. Illya’s berserker rage was useful, as long as they pointed him in the right direction.

Then, with Barath knocked out and tied up, they had scurried to Gaby’s car and fled the scene.

“Good acting back there,” Gaby says as she turns onto a main street. Seconds later, police cars shoot past them, driving toward the smoke rising behind. “Should I be concerned by how well the two of you play jilted lovers?”

Napoleon glances into the rear view mirror. In the back seat, next to an unconscious Barath, Illya is staring out the window, still and silent as a statue. 

“How did you find us?” Napoleon sidesteps the question.

“Followed the tracker you planted on Illya,” Gaby says, reaching into her jacket and pulling out a completely different scanner than the one Illya had been carrying around. She waves it a bit, victorious. “It turned out I couldn’t actually fix the one Illya broke. So when he didn't come back, I went and found yours instead.”

“What?” Illya’s says, coming back to life.

“Unfortunately the signal seemed to have been jammed until about half an hour ago,” Gaby continues, “So it took me a bit longer.”

The shipping containers, but at least they’re free now. Napoleon smiles. What would they ever do without her?

“When?” Illya demands.

“You left me in your room for two whole hours, Peril. I had to find some way to entertain myself.”

“Where...“

His collar. UNCLE’s latest prototypes are much smaller devices than what Illya is familiar with, and so easily concealed. But there’s no way Napoleon will ever make it easy. Napoleon just grins and turns to watch, uncaring of the way his ribs ache in protest, as Illya starts to pat at his clothing. 

Then Napoleon sees his bandaged arm properly for the first time.

“Is that the scarf I bought you?”

Gaby glances over at Napoleon, and at the makeshift bandage she’d used to stop the bleeding.

“Yeah, it’s very nice,” she says.

“It was expensive.” And now it’s ruined.

“Only the best for you, Napoleon,” she says. “I didn’t have anything else with me.”

The sound of ripping comes from Illya’s direction, and Napoleon looks to find Illya holding Napoleon’s tracker, glaring at it in anger. Napoleon had never realized how easily he can get Illya out of his clothes just by telling him he’s been bugged.

“Congratulations.” Napoleon says with a smirk, “See if you can find the other one.”

There isn’t another one, but Illya doesn’t know that. 

-

By the time they get to the safehouse, a cottage on the outskirts of the city, the sun has set beyond the horizon. The last ten minutes of the ride passes in silence. Napoleon is flagging, feeling the full effect of the multiple beatings he has taken in the last twenty-four hours. Illya, the responsible and, most importantly, uninjured one, carries the unconscious Barath across the threshold. Gaby waves and disappears into one of the two bedrooms, a little unsteady on her feet, grumbling about having stayed up all night trying to chase after them. Knowing her, she was more worried than she’d let herself admit.

Napoleon watches Illya work to tie up Barath for a moment, before he goes into the bathroom, flicks on the light, and starts digging for the medical kit. A bone-deep weariness has settled over him, slowing his movements and clouding his thoughts. Bending hurts. Still, it doesn’t take him too long to find what he needs.

In front of the washing basin, Napoleon undoes Gaby’s silk scarf bandage, and strips off the remains of his tattered shirt, another in a long line of victims of his lifestyle. He is filthy all over, covered with dirt and grime, and there is an impressive spread of bruises darkening along his torso. His face, too, is bruised and beginning to swell slightly, his lip split, and his skin marred with cuts and dried blood. Napoleon studies his own reflection. It will be a while before he’s up for any more honeypot tactics.

There is nothing he wants more than a hot shower. The bullet wound on his arm stings, and Napoleon considers his injury, wondering if it’s worth risking the chance of infection. It’ll need stitches.

In the end, he opens the faucet and wets a towel, wiping away the worst of the sweat and grit covering him. Yet when he looks into the mirror again, he somehow looks worse under the dim light, the dark shadows under his eyes now more apparent, and his paleness brought to focus by the moisture on his skin. He dumps the first towel, and prepares another, this time carefully sponging away the blood on his arm. 

He’s cleaning the wound when he notices Illya hovering in the doorway.

Illya’s shoulders are slumped, and he looks at Napoleon with such a puppy-like mix of guilt and uncertainty that Napoleon feels his wariness immediately begin to crumble.

“Are you just going to stand there?” Napoleon says after a second, his throat dry. “Or do you want to come help?”

Illya hesitates a moment, and then steps into the bathroom, which suddenly feels too small for the two of them. Napoleon maneuvers so he’s leaning against the edge of the basin, and Illya reaches for the needle and thread Napoleon had left on the counter.

Silence stretches, and with it, the tension between them grows. Usually, Napoleon would try to fill the quiet with a joke or two, an offhand comment about their misfortune, or their good fortune, when it comes to their rescue. But tonight, he can’t find the energy or the good humor to make light of the situation like he always does. He lets his eyes slip closed, focusing on physical pain instead of the presence of Illya, warm yet distant.

Illya drifts closer, the needle threaded, and he looks at Napoleon with soft eyes, faltering. Napoleon shifts, and nods slightly. Illya reaches out, tentatively touching the edges of his broken skin.

“Do we want to talk about what happened?” Napoleon tries in the end, if only to distract Illya into changing that expression of heartbreak on his face. He wonders if he should apologize for what he said in the factory, but Illya understands that it had been required by the situation, Napoleon thinks, so maybe it’s not necessary.

Illya pauses then, his needle nearing Napoleon’s arm. Then, he goes for it, and Napoleon tenses slightly as metal pierces skin.

Napoleon had imagined it might be different, the first time having Illya this close while he has his shirt off. But he can’t fault the most likely situation for occurring instead of his fantasised version. Illya’s expression is serious, his brow furrowed with intent as he carefully stitches Napoleon back together. The Russian’s touch is far softer than Napoleon had expected, and he hates the feeling of being treated like something delicate, as though he’d fall apart if Illya so much as nudged him a little harder. 

“You should never have gone with Barath,” Illya mumbles.

Napoleon blinks slowly, tired and incredulous. “Are you blaming _me_ for what happened?”

There is no immediate response, and Napoleon feels a tiny flame of anger flicker back to life in his chest. 

“I didn’t know where you were.” 

Illya is trying to explain himself, Napoleon thinks, it’s just that his words only sound like excuses.

“You’re supposed to trust me to play my part.”

“That doesn’t mean I’ll stand and do nothing when you disappear.”

“I took a necessary chance,” Napoleon says, a wave of exhaustion washing over him. “You’ve known where things might lead since the briefing. It’s why I was assigned instead of you.”

“It never had to go that far.” Illya’s voice wavers. 

Napoleon looks over at the Russian, and finds turmoil roiling in Illya’s eyes. 

“You could have gotten the information another way,” Illya continues, insistent.

“This is what I’m good at, Peril.” Seduction is a regular part of his repertoire, just like lying and opening locks.

Illya stills, though his hand doesn’t move from Napoleon’s arm, a single point of warmth against his freezing skin. “You should never have forced yourself to go to bed with that man.”

They’ve all done things they didn’t want to do, it’s part of their job. The protectiveness in Illya’s voice, along with his disgust, is more clear than ever before. And Napoleon wants to laugh as much as he’d like to sob. He doesn’t know how to reconcile these two versions of Illya. The one who is willing give up his life if it means Napoleon’s might be spared, and the one who will brutalize a man for no other reason than the fact that he engages in homosexual acts. 

If Napoleon pitted both halves against each other, which Illya would win? 

The ridiculousness of the situation strikes Napoleon then, and his exhaustion pushes him toward self-destruction. As much as he tells himself he has control over the situation, the truth is that he’s floundering, because every time he thinks that Illya will never return his interest, the Russian goes and does something frustratingly captivating. He’s tired, so tired of this. Of constantly second-guessing every single one of Illya’s actions, of the fear of what might happen if he steps over that fine line. Of the stubborn flame of hope that refuses to go out, and the currents that drag him under again and again no matter how many times he repeats that he needs to save himself. 

This has to end. Before Napoleon does something stupid like lean forward and just kiss Illya where he stands.

Illya ties off the thread and snips off the loose end. Napoleon watches, expressionless.

“What makes you think I didn’t want to do it?”

Illya freezes, the scissors still clutched in his hand, sharp enough to stab Napoleon with, if he wants.

“What are you saying?” 

There have been times where he hadn’t wanted it. In Rome, when Victoria Vinciguerra had swept into his room ready to unleash her attack dogs, and their fragile covers were hanging in the balance. After that, Jakarta, Chicago, Trinidad… yet the only time Illya will ever think to stage a rescue is the time Napoleon is in the company of another man. 

When it comes to Barath, if Napoleon chooses to be honest with them both, he hadn’t been unwilling. And in this moment, the idea of telling Illya and confronting his fury does not bring fear or terror. He’s seen what Illya is capable of, has been caught in the periphery of his violent rage, and it is not nearly as terrible as the thought of allowing this farce of a misunderstanding to continue. Instead, the promise of honesty feels like relief, the necessary amputation of a part of him that has gone too long without what it needs.

Napoleon takes a breath. Illya is right there, so close. He can just lay his head on Illya’s shoulder, pull him in tight, and he’ll be fine to sleep for a year like he wants to.

“I’m saying, Peril, I didn’t volunteer to protect you.” 

Napoleon’s true intentions had nothing to do with Illya, and it had everything to do with Illya.

“Why are you doing this?” says Illya, his eyes glossy, bewildered. He has no idea why Napoleon is intentionally trying to hurt him, or perhaps he knows exactly why. “You’re not one of them.”

“Are you sure about that?” says Napoleon, closing what’s left of the distance between them in one smooth movement. Napoleon’s naked torso is almost pressed against the fabric of Illya’s shirt, and he raises his eyes to study the intensity behind Illya’s gaze. No anger, no rage, only terror and confusion, and it feeds the darkest parts of Napoleon, the part that wants to push Illya just a little bit more, and watch him come undone before him. Illya’s eyes widen, a stormy, breathtaking blue. Napoleon does not smile, but his gaze flickers down to Illya’s lips, barely inches away. 

All he has to do is lean forward, and he would know their taste. 

Then, Illya is stumbling backward, his breath coming in stutters. Cold sweeps into the empty space he leaves behind.

Confusion, betrayal, the way Illya looks at Napoleon makes him feel like the worse type of scum that exists in the world. Perhaps that’s what he is, living a life of craving things he doesn’t deserve, hiding these unnatural feelings for his partner. Napoleon supposes he’ll just have to live with it, and endure his punishment like he endures the CIA’s collar around his throat.

In the next moment, Illya is gone.

There had been better ways of doing this. Napoleon should have used more tact, found a time when they’re not both dealing with the fallout of almost betrayal, of a mission gone terribly wrong. Then, perhaps he would have done less damage.

But this is what he needs, Napoleon thinks, turning back toward the mirror. He examines his wound, now held tight by a neat row of tight stitches. Then, he looks toward the first aid kit, and reaches for the bandages. 

He’ll know the repercussions of his choice in time.

-

When the sound of Hungarian curses comes from the kitchen near one a.m., Napoleon drops the book he had been trying to read, and shifts to get off the bed, grimacing as every part of his body flares up with pain. He takes a moment when he stands up, and when the world finally steadies around him, and he stops feeling like he might be sick, he straightens and heads for the kitchen.

When he clears the hallway, Barath is sitting awake in his chair, glaring daggers at Illya, who towers over him and stares at him without expression. Just like Napoleon, Illya has found fresh, albeit ill-fitting clothes.

“You will tell me what I want to know,” says Illya, his voice a low, threatening growl. “Or I will make it hurt much more than the last time.”

Napoleon pays little attention to them both, and goes to drag another chair in front of Barath, stiffly settling down on top of it. He waits for a moment, until Barath’s determined silence drives Illya to step aside. The Russian goes to pace behind their target, unable to be seen, but with enough noise to be heard. 

Napoleon is always the good cop; they like to play to their strengths.

“I’m very sorry about this situation, Mr. Barath,” Napoleon says. He leans forward. “I hope you’re not too uncomfortable.” 

After what the man had put him through in the factory, Napoleon can’t quite find anything akin to guilt inside of him. But all things considered, this had not been the outcome he intended.

“You will die for this, you know that?”

What an original threat.

“Look, you were right, I didn’t show up for new identity documents,” Napoleon says with less than his usual patience. “There is something we need to know about one of your clients, and if you are able to tell us, then we will let you go, and we can each go on our way. I promise you won’t ever see any of us ever again.” He ends his words with an apologetic smile. “How does that sound?”

Barath only glares at him.

“You’re aware of what my friend here is capable of,” Napoleon continues, “So please don’t make this any more difficult than it already is.”

He waits, and Barath still says nothing.

“Alright,” he shifts, and picks up a folder sitting on the table beside him. Then, he takes out a photograph, and holds it up for the other man to see. “This woman made contact with you about two months ago. We would like to know what you’ve done with her.”

Barath’s eyes flicker to the photograph, and then his brow furrows. Confusion. Napoleon frowns. Barath either doesn’t know what Russell had done, or he doesn’t remember her as well as they’d like.

“I’m not in the habit of betraying my customers.”

Illya steps forward, and a loud smack sounds in the room. Barath sags to one side with the force of the strike.

“Illya,” Napoleon snaps, glaring at his partner for the unjustified attack. Illya’s icy glare turns on him, and then he steps back to one side.

“Again, I apologize,” he says to Barath. “My partner tends to be a little bit hasty with the violence.”

“You know, I never thought Beaumont would have this much sway in the CIA,” Barath says, working his jaw, “But women always surprise you, don’t they?”

Napoleon straightens. He glances at Illya, who stares at Barath with confusion in his eyes.

“You think we’re working for Élodie Beaumont?” Napoleon asks. 

“Why else would the CIA betray one of its own assets?”

Napoleon blinks as realization crashes over him. This is why Pierre had known so much. Barath doesn’t have access to unusual resources; he’s just been living in the CIA’s pocket for the last god knows how many years, and getting rich on American money.

“You work for the CIA,” he states.

“They didn’t tell you?” Barath says, a cruel smirk on his lips. “They pay me to forge identities and papers for their agents operating in Europe. I remember your face quite clearly, Mr. Kingsley, or should I say Mr. Moore?”

One was a stockbroker from America, and another was a British merchant. Both have been Napoleon’s aliases on previous CIA missions. Did Waverly know about this? No, he wouldn’t have kept something this important from his own agents. This has to be the CIA, playing their cards too close to their chest yet again.

The smirk on Barath’s face turns into snickering as Napoleon watches him with a frown. So Barath wins the first round, though it may not be such a bad thing. Perhaps he'd like to push his advantage and tell them more.

“What about the woman?” Napoleon says, raising the photograph a second time.

“Like I told her, I don’t know here she is.” Barath says, his tone suggesting a build up toward another victory. “She never showed up.”

“She never made the rendezvous?” says Napoleon, skeptical.

“No, neither of them did.”

“What are you talking about?” Illya snaps.

Then, Barath pauses, and he regards them both with an air of confused condescension. “You really don’t know?”

Napoleon shakes his head carefully.

“Beaumont was the one who hired me. She wanted two sets of documents. One for her and one for the other woman. They would have both gone to Palermo, that is, if either of them had bothered to show up to leave.”

Napoleon leans back in his chair, and when he looks at Illya, his partner is already staring at him in disbelief. 

“You can hit me as much as you want,” Barath continues, “But I don’t know where she is.”

Nothing is ever easy in their line of work.

-

They contact Waverly, who orders them to continue their investigation, and they hand Barath over to local agents just before dawn. Gaby is still asleep. And after the man is taken away, Illya disappears immediately into the bowels of the apartment. 

They’d gone back to normalcy for all of two days before Napoleon went and ruined it again. 

Half of Napoleon knows he should apologize. He was, still is, tired, in pain, and carrying no small amount of rage against Illya for his assumptions. If he acts fast enough, he may still be able to play his actions off as an ill-conceived joke. But even when he considers the option, exhaustion accumulated over the last few weeks of pretense catches up to him, along with every ache he has been nursing since Illya crashed through that door two nights ago, and drawing out Illya’s suffering feels again like the preferable choice.

In some ways, it is a relief, not having to immediately face whatever feelings Illya is fostering inside of him. In other ways, it is like waiting out a slowly ticking bomb, with no way of knowing when the seconds will run out and Napoleon will be demolished without a trace. Perhaps Illya will work through whatever rage he is feeling. Or perhaps Napoleon should expect to be cornered in a dark alley sometime and receive a warning of the verbal or even the physical sort. Either way, knowing Illya’s hate, it seems that this might be their last mission together.

Napoleon’s feelings are not going to go away, and instead of letting the wound fester and poison him slowly, perhaps cauterizing the wound is what’s necessary. Dash his hopes once and for all, and douse the torch he can’t seem to stop carrying.

The chips will fall where they may.

Once Barath is out of their hair, Napoleon, who knows better than to try and invite back the nightmares, and who also enjoys tempting fate, pulls on an ill-fitting coat left in the closet. Then, he dashes out into the brisk Paris morning toward the nearest grocery, intent on filling his starving stomach. 

The bruises on his face have well and truly set in. But despite his haggard appearance, Napoleon still manages to charm a young grocer through broken French into selling him some supplies just as the tiny store is loading their inventory for the day. Then, with his newly acquired loot, he returns to their safehouse and its tiny kitchen, and clatters around making breakfast.

Hunger drives the Russian into making a short appearance soon after the smell of cooking eggs spreads through the apartment. And he disappears with his plate as soon as Napoleon awkwardly hands it to him.

At seven, Gaby appears from her room, looking almost completely refreshed. Napoleon is already sitting at the table, drinking coffee while flipping through the morning’s paper. The factory fire is front-page news, and the police have found many injured men, but no leads.

“How did it go?” Gaby says as she helps herself to the food and takes a seat at the table. “I heard you two handing Barath over.”

“We need to have a conversation with Beaumont,” Napoleon says, folding his paper and affixing Gaby with his most disarming smile.

Gaby grabs her cutlery, and blinks up at him, confused. As she chews her way through a slice of toast lathered with apricot jam, Napoleon tells her everything they had discovered from Barath.

“Where’s Illya?” she asks when Napoleon finishes his explanation.

“I may have said something enormously offensive to him, and now he is not speaking to me, again. I think he’s hiding.”

“You know this isn’t what I meant when I asked you to talk to him, right?”

This time, it’s Napoleon who steals a piece of food, a slice of apple, and he sticks it into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully.

“Trust me,” Napoleon says, “It’s better this way.”

Gaby looks at him like he’s out of his mind.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the wait! Real life deadlines got in the way of writing, and this entire chapter turned out to be a bit of a monster in terms of length.
> 
> Warning: this chapter makes reference to sexual abuse of a minor. See end notes for details.

Illya sits against the wall of the bedroom, his fist resting at his side, slowly tightening and loosening. Each time, the bruises and cuts along his knuckles twinge with pain. The repetition is a calming outlet for his restlessness, even if it is a poor one. He keeps his breathing even, measuring each inhale and exhale, telling himself to not let the panic overtake him again. On the nightstand, his plate of food sits empty.

On principle, Illya should kill Napoleon for the stunt he had tried to pull.

First, the factory, and then in the safehouse bathroom after, it is as though everything Napoleon says and does is part of a deliberate attempt to provoke Illya into madness. He can forgive Napoleon for the things he said in front of their captors. It had been necessary to distract their attention from hurting them further. The scenario Napoleon had chosen was foolish, perhaps, but Illya could see it as one suited to someone the likes of Barath. Despite the barbs and accusations Napoleon had shot his way, Illya had played his role. Perhaps with less pretense than usual, but he had been sufficiently convincing, and that’s the only thing that matters.

But then came the moment in the bathroom, and Illya can’t ignore Napoleon’s pointed words and actions the same way he can dismiss what was said in the factory. Illya knows Napoleon is angry. It is Illya’s fault their mission had ended up so violently derailed, and it had been Illya’s stubbornness that had gotten Napoleon hurt in the factory. Yet what Napoleon said had made no sense.

The most unforgivable thing of all, is that Illya had almost fallen for it. When Napoleon had stood there, bare from the waist up, his solid heat pressed against Illya’s chest, Illya had _wanted_. He had wanted to reach out, wanted desperately to claim those lips as his, to curl his arm around Napoleon’s waist and slide his hand into Napoleon’s hair and kiss him until the calculation in Napoleon’s eyes were drowned with lust.

A normal person would have been angry. They would have pushed Napoleon away, confronted him there and then and proven their mettle. His blood had been singing for violence, crying out for him to lash out, to defend himself. But it was Napoleon, standing there, breathtaking in his beauty even when battered and bruised, and it was all Illya could do to flee, clinging desperately to what was left of his dignity.

Napoleon knows. He has to know. If it had been a test, Illya thinks, then it’s one he understands with terrifying certainty he had failed.

Just like each time before, Illya had allowed terror to overtake him. In that moment, it became impossible to keep pretending he is anything else but one of _them_. His desires spell betrayal, and if he is to kill Napoleon for his trespass than it also means destroying himself. Because he is no better, no better than the man in his memories, the monster that had violated Yuri until there was nothing left. He’s become like that man, like those others caught and locked away, with the same ugliness in his soul he had sworn to erase.

There is one thing he still doesn’t understand. The way Napoleon had spoken, he had made it sound as though he was willing, like he had wanted Barath to do those things to him, like he might actually want Illya to-

But that can’t be true.

Had Napoleon really meant those words? Or were they also part of the test? Because that has to be what it was. An act designed to incite a reaction, like the show they had put on for Barath. Illya hadn’t understood at first, the reasons why Napoleon asked those questions, acting as though Illya might, like they both might… try and hurt each other that way. Illya knows Napoleon had seen through him, even if Barath believed Illya’s poor acting.

It was a test. And that’s what Illya will believe; it’s what he wants to believe. The alternative means that Napoleon is also one of _them_ , and he can’t be, not Napoleon who beds women like a bad habit. Not Napoleon who has never looked twice at handsome men. There hasn’t been anything in Napoleon’s words and actions to even suggest he is not normal.

_What makes you think I didn’t want to do it?_

Napoleon was lying, Illya thinks. Napoleon knows, he knows the depths of Illya’s depraved urges. He has probably always known. But what does he want?

Illya thoughts go around in circles, and he can find no answer.

Later, Illya doesn’t know when, Gaby knocks loudly on the door, yelling that they need to leave.

 

-

 

When Illya steps out into the mid-morning sun, dressed again in his own clothes, there’s a dark blue Peugeot waiting for them. It’s a different car from the vehicle Gaby had rescued them with, and she is bent over the hood, poking at the engines as much as she can without getting grease on her designer dress. Napoleon is leaning sideways against the car and staring out at the street, back in a stylish grey suit, and the worst of his bruises hidden by sunglasses and a black trilby.

They’re probably overestimating the competency of the local police with an entirely new vehicle, but caution is a must. As displeased as Waverly had been with the way things had turned out, he’d gone to the trouble of arranging for local agents to reequip them, retrieving their luggage from the hotel and bringing it to the safehouse. Illya has to admit, it’s one of the better perks of working in an agency that has good relationships with most jurisdictions.

“Do we have a plan?” Illya says, hunching in his jacket as he approaches his team. Napoleon’s presence stands out like a beacon, and Illya forces himself to ignore the way the American turns bodily toward his voice. Frustration cuts through him with the force of a blunt knife.

“We thought we’d go check out Beaumont’s apartment first,” Gaby says, closing the car hood with a loud thunk.

It’s not a bad idea. Though it’s been two months, there may still be some sort of clue that lays there forgotten. With Barath exposed, there is no telling how Beaumont may react to a confrontation, and it would be best to follow every lead they have before they provoke a woman they know surprisingly little about.

“What about Beaumont?” Illya says, “Her guards won’t just let us walk straight through the front door.”

“Unless we have a good excuse,” Gaby says smugly, digging into her purse. She pulls out a ring, rose quartz framed with diamonds.

Illya squints at the tiny piece of jewelry, and realization hits him.

“Is that hers?”

Gaby smiles, and turns toward Napoleon, signaling for him to speak. Illya does not follow her gaze. There is only silence, and Gaby’s brow creases.

“Yes,” she replies eventually, tucking it back safely in her bag. “Napoleon had it.”

So Cowboy’s sticky fingers are useful after all. Illya nods once, and opens the passenger side door, slipping into the car. Gaby stares at him, and then at Napoleon, before she makes a face and gets into the driver’s seat. Napoleon gets into the car soon after.

She should be happy that she’s driving, Illya thinks, as they pull out into the street.

Illya stares out the window at the passing city. A moment later, Gaby slaps a map against Illya’s chest and asks him to provide directions.

 

-

 

In-between Illya’s terse instructions, there is a tense silence in the car that drives Gaby to switch on the radio after ten minutes. Illya diligently guides them through the streets of Paris, and before too long, they’re pulling up outside their destination.

Beaumont’s apartment on the Champs-Élysées is part of a luxurious high rise, and they park in a nearby laneway, quickly negotiating their approach. With his particular expertise, Napoleon is the natural choice for breaking and entering. Illya almost considers staying and waiting in the car, but the idea of it is suffocating enough he ends up putting himself on Napoleon’s team, if only to have something to soothe his agitated nerves.

When he makes the call, Napoleon stares at him from behind his sunglasses, and Illya doesn’t know what to make of his surprise. Perhaps he doesn’t want someone like Illya in his company, or perhaps he is still waiting for Illya’s reaction after the scene in the bathroom the night before. But as awkward as things are between them right now, Illya is not going to sacrifice the mission for his personal comfort. They are both agents, and there is more at stake than Illya’s failures and Napoleon’s grudge against him. So they arrange their plan, and Illya pretends he does not see Napoleon’s consternation.

Gaby provides a distraction, walking up to the front doors of the building with the hesitance of a lost tourist. She asks the doorman for directions toward L’arc de Triomphe in awkward French, and Illya and Napoleon sneak in behind them. Inside, the concierge sits in his chair engrossed by a novel, and they save their excuses, dashing into the stairwell before they can be noticed.

The apartment is on the fourth floor, and Napoleon folds away his sunglass the moment they step foot in the deserted hallway. Illya keeps watch as Napoleon bends to pick the lock to the entrance. The moment the door clicks open, they slip inside one after the other.

Incongruous with the reputation of the Parisian elite, the apartment of Élodie Beaumont turns out to be almost homey, even by Illya’s standards. There are fluffy cushions and soft throws strewn across pieces of furniture, and countless trinkets adorning spare surfaces. The furniture is arranged for convenience and comfort rather than appearance, and the shelves are lined with books, which look well-loved rather than decorative. It’s cozy, Illya thinks as he steps further inside, even if there is a fine layer of dust covering every surface.

Even Napoleon looks impressed.

“This place still looks occupied,” the American murmurs, glancing about curiously. There’s a gathering of matryoshka dolls that catches his eye, and he bends for a closer look.

Illya catches himself staring at the spread of dark bruises on Napoleon’s face. Guilt twists in his gut, mingling with the fury and frustration still simmering inside. Annoyed, Illya tears his gaze away toward a row of books on a nearby shelf and glances over the titles. They’re novels and poetry collections, Keats, Rimbaud, recorded in both French and English. Illya remembers the small book of poetry Napoleon had handed him two days ago, and another unnamable emotion digs its way into his heart.

Illya can’t find the voice to give his opinion, but he agrees with Napoleon’s assessment. The apartment looks more like someone’s home than a temporary retreat, suspended in time and waiting for its owners to return. Judging by the dust, no one has been here in at least a month or two. Illya wants to ask Napoleon why he thinks Beaumont hasn’t come back to reclaim her property, but the words never make it past the lump in his throat.

They get to work searching the home, and Illya finds nothing out of the ordinary in the drawers and cabinets. He’s in the bedroom, considering the bed and the mattress, when he realizes he can no longer hear the sounds of Napoleon’s footsteps and rummaging.

Illya steps back into the silent apartment, exploring the rooms all over again until he catches sight of Napoleon, standing in a corner of the living room and studying a painting with interest. The canvas depicts a collection of figures, the most prominent being three naked women, as well as man drawing a bow across a cello. Illya’s expertise starts and ends at identifying the style as distinctly European, maybe Renaissance.

“This is a Rubens replica,” Napoleon says cheerily when Illya comes to a stop behind him. “[The Education of the Princess](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/5/5a/Education_of_the_Princess_by_Peter_Paul_Rubens.jpg), if I’m correct, and I usually am. One of twenty-four paintings commissioned by Marie de’ Medici in 1621.”

Illya memorizes the trivia, though he can't imagine any universe where that kind of information would be useful to him. He stares at the back of Napoleon’s head, and then the painting. Illya thinks he knows what it is that has grabbed Napoleon’s attention. But Napoleon wants him to ask.

“Is there something special about it?” Illya says, deciding to play along.

Three months ago, in London, Napoleon had revealed a hidden stairwell to Illya with more theatrics than there is to be found in a Hollywood motion picture. It had come complete with another grand speech about observation, and how the wall of a hallway had been longer than the wall of the room it bordered. By all standards, it should have been insufferable, yet the slant of Napoleon’s delighted smile and the excited glint lighting his eyes had stolen Illya’s breath away.

“Not unless you have a particular interest in Baroque art,” Napoleon replies, “But…”

Now, Napoleon’s voice is quiet, and his face is pale with exhaustion. Illya casts his gaze downward, fighting the inappropriate urge to stare that continues to tease at him despite everything that's happened. On the floor by the wall, there is a clean line where the dust has been disturbed.

Napoleon steps forward to reach for the painting, and Illya’s hand shoots out, catching Napoleon’s wrist in a tight grip.

“Wait.”

Napoleon turns toward him, confused, and follows the line of Illya’s gaze. His expression clears. “We weren’t the first ones here.”

“No,” Illya says, stepping in front of Napoleon. He gently probes his fingers along the outer rims of the frame, feeling gently for traps. At the bottom of the painting, his fingers catch against a wire, and he frowns, crouching for a better look.

“What is it?”

“A trap,” Illya says, pulling out his flashlight and pointing it at the small thread of clear wire visible at the bottom of the painting. Napoleon crouches next to him, and studies it with quiet hum.

“Step back,” Illys says.

Napoleon looks at him, and Illya ignores his unasked question. He doesn’t want Napoleon to blow up, but he can’t say it either. Instead, Illya studies the mechanism, focusing on disarming whatever it is that had been left for them. The wire is some sort of fishing wire, and at first examination, appears to be stuck to the frame. If Napoleon had pulled away the painting, something would be activated with it.

Carefully, he detaches the wire from the frame, and lifts the painting away from the wall.

Before them, sits an open safe, a long wire sneaking out from inside. Illya reaches forward, and pulls the door open.

A bomb.

“Someone left us a present,” Napoleon muses.

And whoever it is nearly succeeded in killing them both, Illya thinks as he goes to remove it. This mission is getting more interesting by the hour.

 

-

 

When they make it outside and back to their car, Gaby is sprawled in the driver’s seat, staring blankly at the passing pedestrians.

“Finally,” she grumbles when they pull open the doors to the car and climb inside. “Did you find anything?”

“We found a safe, with a bomb inside it,” Napoleon says merrily from the back seat. There’s a pause, and Illya can only imagine the American is holding up the package of metal and wiring they had removed from the apartment like it is a prize. “Would you like to take it apart?”

Gaby eyes him from through the rear view mirror, her expression twisted in revulsion. “Are you sure that’s safe?”

“Well… no. Worse comes to worst, we’ll all blow up.”

“That’s not reassuring, Solo.”

The bomb secured, and the apartment scoured, their next destination is the Beaumont mansion itself. Gaby switches on the engine, and pushes down on the gas pedal.

“What do you think it means?” she asks, once they’re out on the main street.

There’s silence, as both Illya and Napoleon wait for each other to speak first. Gaby waits, sighs, and then mumbles something under her breath.

“Someone is trying to kill whoever comes after the research,” Illya says at last.

Gaby nods with a soft sigh, and then seems to give up on getting any more discussion out of them. The rest of the ride passes in silence.

 

-

 

According to UNCLE records, the Beaumont mansion is a magnificent Second Empire structure nestled in the center of the city, only a short distance away from Élodie Beaumont’s apartment. Conveniently, the building sits right at the entrance of an enormous public park – le Parc Monceau – and Gaby parks their vehicle in one of the many spaces available to park patrons.

The short avenue is lined with towering trees, casting everything into shade. When Illya gets out of the car after thoroughly checking his equipment, Napoleon is staring at the park gates, his hands tucked casually into his pockets. He turns to gaze at Illya as the car door thuds shut, and Illya dares to look only to find Napoleon’s eyes invisible behind his sunglasses yet again. Abruptly, anger resurges, twisting with shame into something familiar that Illya only knows to treat with hate and distance.

Behind them, the car wobbles as Gaby makes her exit.

“Well, I’ll see you boys later,” she says, one hand holding onto her sunhat as she stares down the road toward the wrought iron gates of the Beaumont mansion.

Illya frowns. “You’re not going in alone.”

“It’s not like you can come with me,” she says, “She saw you, remember? When you came to get me at the gala. It’d make no sense for me to turn up with a waiter.”

“We’re going there to interrogate her, not to make friends,” Illya says. Napoleon stays unhelpfully silent next to him.

“We still need to get through the door.” Gaby’s eyes narrow with a glare. “Go and help Napoleon break in.”

Napoleon is going to what? Illya’s head whips toward Napoleon, and the American tenses under his scrutiny. His lips press into a tight line.

“You can always pretend he was the one who found the ring,” Napoleon says, glib as always.

Neither of them had mentioned separation until now, and resentment flickers inside Illya at the thought. He should have asked. But they had let him assume.

Gaby scowls at Napoleon. “Just take him with you.”

“Illya is not exactly inconspicuous. I’m already trying to break in in the middle of the day, in a suit nonetheless.”

“I am right here,” Illya growls, and he crosses his arms. He’s not some sort of unwanted child. “We shouldn’t separate.”

They had needed a distraction for the apartment, but this is a different kind of risk, and neither of them should be without backup.

Napoleon sighs quietly. “The pair of you will look suspicious enough. If I try to join you looking like this, none of us are going to get through.”

The edges of a purple bruise peek out from the edges of Napoleon’s sunglasses, and the reminder of his guilt takes all the wind out of Illya’s sails. Illya’s jaw tightens. It makes sense to search the house, just in case Beaumont doesn’t share the whole story. But that doesn’t mean it feels right to let Napoleon walk off alone again. Yet he can’t leave Gaby on her own either, not when she’ll be walking straight into the lion’s den.

There is silence, and Illya realizes they’re waiting for him to choose.

Napoleon is an expert thief doing what he does best, Gaby is openly walking into an unpredictable situation. The choice should be obvious, yet some primal, protective part of Illya demands him to never let Napoleon out of his sight. The same instincts that had landed them both in Barath’s clutches now clamors for him to follow the American. If Illya goes with Gaby, there will be no one to watch Napoleon’s back. There might be another trap waiting.

_You’re supposed to trust me to play my part._

“Just don’t get caught,” Illya says.

A small smile makes it onto Napoleon’s face, and then disappears with such speed Illya’s heart lurches even as he tears his gaze away. Had it been another test somehow? Napoleon wants Illya to let him do his job, isn’t that what this is? Then why isn’t he happy?

Gaby gapes at them both, and Illya feels another tiny stab of hurt.

“Well, in that case, you kids have fun,” Napoleon says in the next moment with a quirk of his lips. He steps away with a small wave, and then he’s walking away toward the park.

Illya stands, staring at the retreating figure. He still feels like he’s just done something wrong, but he doesn’t understand why.

Behind him, Gaby sighs. “Alright, come on then.”

 

-

 

With her best doe eyes and most disarming smile, Gaby spins her excuse to convince the gate guard into leaving his post and passing along their request for entry. Unsurprisingly, the man returns with an affirmative, and both Illya and Gaby are permitted to walk through the front gates.

Up close, the Beaumont mansion is just as glorious as it had looked in the photograph, built with sandstone blocks and embellished with elegant carvings. Illya and Gaby walk up the length of the driveway, and up to the front doors, where a butler greets them politely, and leads them into the house. Inside, the mansion is even more stunning, with checkered marble floors, beautiful murals, and antique furnishings. Illya tries hard not to stare as they walk past priceless pieces of classic art, and silently hopes Napoleon doesn’t try to steal things he shouldn’t.

The butler leads them into a drawing room with tall windows that open out to an incredible view of the park beyond. He retreats with promises of tea and refreshments, and Illya and Gaby are left staring at each other. Gaby directs a cheeky smile at him, and Illya stares back without expression, feeling incredibly out of place. At least the weight of his gun against his chest is reassuring.

It only takes a few minutes before a door opens, and Élodie Beaumont enters the room with a wide smile on her face. She’s beautifully styled, her pale blonde hair done up in a beehive, and dressed in an ivory colored dress Illya doesn’t recognize. It’s definitely haute couture, Illya thinks. Perhaps Dior?

“Gaby!” Beaumont says at the sight of her new friend, and Gaby smiles back, reaching forward for a hug. They greet each other with cheek kisses, and it’s only when they pull apart that Beaumont notices Illya in the corner. She stares at him, surprised, before turning to Gaby with a question in her eyes.

“This is Illya,” Gaby says with a grin, gesturing for Illya to come closer. He does as he’s asked, and steps forward, nodding in a greeting. “He is my friend, you might have seen him during the gala. He was working there as a waiter.”

“Yes,” Beaumont says, and Illya detects confusion in her tone. “I also notice he disappeared with you.”

She’s sharp, Illya observes, despite her demure and cautious manner.

“Well, that’s a long story,” Gaby says dismissively, “But here, I have something for you.”

She holds out the ring, and Beaumont’s face lights up when she sees it. “My ring! Oh thank you, I can’t believe you found it.”

Gaby is smiling, and the door opens a second time. This time, it’s the butler, who has brought a tray of tea and finger foods. Beaumont ushers them into seats with a bright smile on her face, and the next thing Illya knows, he’s cradling a cup of tea in his hands as Gaby and Beaumont take small sips of their drink. He doesn’t think it’s poisoned, but he makes no move to drink it.

Gaby glances at Illya, and he nods once. Her expression shifts into seriousness.

“Élodie, there’s something I want to ask you,” says Gaby gently.

“Yes, what is it?”

“What do you know about Janine Russell?”

Beaumont’s smile freezes on her face. Illya studies her carefully, watching for any hint of violent intent.

Out of the countless people Barath could have implicated when interrogated about Janine Russell’s location, he had chosen Élodie Beaumont. The man had volunteered the information like it was a matter of fact, and Illya can think of no reason for him to have lied. It means that Beaumont is more than Russell’s friend, that she is her accomplice as well. Yet for reasons unknown, she has lost track of Russell and her location.

So just how much the woman is hiding, when it comes to the missing secretary and the research?

“Who are you talking about?” There’s a tremor in her voice.

“We know she’s your friend, Élodie,” says Gaby, “Janine stole critical research from her company, and her country. We know you tried to arrange for her escape, and we need to know what you know in order to find her.”

Beaumont stands up, and her terrified gaze flits from Gaby to Illya, then back again. “Who are you?”

“My name is Gaby Teller, and this man here is Illya Kuryakin. He is part of my team.” Gaby says patiently, never once breaking eye contact. “We work for UNCLE, the United Network Command of Law and Enforcement. We’re a multinational taskforce fighting against international threats, and what your friend has done is putting a lot of people’s safety in danger. We need to know where she is, and we need you to help us.”

Beaumont stares at Gaby, her eyes wide. In the tense silence that follows, Illya studies her carefully, wondering what she plans to do with her new knowledge. Telling the truth isn’t always the right thing to do, but witnessing people’s reactions will never stop being useful. He looks for doubt, for awareness, and sees only shock.

Then, Beaumont falls back onto her seat.

“If you want to know where she is, you should ask Mark Barath,” she says, staring anxiously at the ground, her hands clasped nervously. “He was her escape plan.”

“We have, Élodie,” says Gaby, “He told us he was also your escape plan.”

Beaumont stiffens under their gaze.

“And he said that neither of you showed up at the rendezvous,” Gaby continues

“What?” Alarm, genuine as far as Illya can tell.

“You didn’t know?” Illya says. This fits with what Barath implied, that Beaumont had been harassing him, trying to find out Russell’s location. Yet if she chose not to leave and believed that Russell had safely disappeared, then why this need for finding her? To apologize for staying behind?

“No, no, I thought she left…” As she speaks, Beaumont’s expression shifts from shock into horror, and she raises a hand to her mouth. “Oh no, no no no.”

Beaumont hunches in on herself, murmuring in distress, and nothing about her demeanor gives the impression of pretense. Illya and Gaby exchange a glance, and Gaby moves to Beaumont’s side, resting a hand on her shoulder in comfort.

“Hey, I’m sure she’s alright,” she says, “But we’re going to need your help if we want to find her.”

Beaumont looks at her then. “You think she’s in danger?”

“Considering the people she likely tried to sell to, that is possible.”

What neither of them says is the likelihood that Russell is already dead. A supercomputer as advanced as the one the Americans had in development has the capacity to break through the encrypted communications of every advanced nation in the world. And both money and morality are rarely issues to those with the wealth and need to create technology decades ahead of its contemporaries. They’d have no qualms taking care of a secretary with neither training nor understanding of the world she had stepped into.

Beaumont should confirm their theory – that someone approached Russell and bribed her into stealing the research.

“Sell to?”

“Yes,” Gaby says, “Did she ever tell you who she was in contact with?”

“No, no. Janine never tried to sell to anyone. That research belongs to her.”

It take a second for the meaning of Beaumont's words to click. Beaumont thinks that Russell is entitled to the research, though that is impossible considering the fact that she is a thief. If Russell had told Beaumont she had genuine ownership, then the woman was naïve to believe her. Gaby glances at Illya, uncertain. Illya hides his skepticism behind a mask of indifference.

“What do you mean?” Gaby says.

“She is the one who developed the technology. The Cradle, that’s what it’s called, isn’t it? The supercomputer? She’s an engineer, and they paid her as a secretary. No one at that company ever gave her half the credit she deserved. She was the one who designed the computer, and all they wanted was to steal her accomplishments.”

The only sound in the room is Beaumont’s harsh breathing, her anger severe behind her glare.

“She’d never steal something for money,” Beaumont continues. “That research was her life. And her colleagues were thieves who were going to take everything she’d been working for. So she took it first and ran.”

Her story is unlikely enough to border on the absurd, and Illya has doubts that Russell did design as much of the technology as Beaumont seems to believe, even if she did somehow participate in the process. Illya studies Beaumont, looking for a hint of deception, but the woman’s stare is resolute and her posture confident. By every indication, she believes what she says.

Yet if there is some truth to Beaumont's words, and this was the reason a woman had been able to rob the Americans so thoroughly, then it makes sense that a bunch of useless businessmen would have handled the situation poorly. It would explain why it had taken almost two months before UNCLE was moved into action, chasing what would have by all accounts been a cold trail. It seems that information had been withheld at every level.

Trust the Americans.

“Even if what you say is true,” Illya says, “We still need to find her, and more importantly, find out what she did with the research.”

“I am not lying,” Beaumont says, “And I’ll help.”

“Has she made contact with you?” Gaby says.

“No. I’ve been trying to find her.” Beaumont stands, seemingly remembering something. “Come with me. She left me some documents, maybe it’d be useful to you.”

She’s almost at the door before Illya and Gaby are able to get out of their chairs, and they follow her across the mansion. They’re approaching the bottom of the grand staircase in the entrance hall when they hear a fourth set of footsteps, and all three of them look up to find Napoleon smiling at them from the banister. His hat has disappeared, and his sunglasses sit folded in a pocket, his bruises on display. Illya’s heart clenches at the sight, and a memory flashes of a flying fist, striking against Napoleon's cheek.

“So, fun fact, your safe is empty,” Napoleon says. The smirk on his face is just as familiar and handsome as ever, and there’s not so much as a scuffmark on his suit. “Whoever stole your belongings also left you a bomb.”

“Mr. Bright…?” Beaumont steps back.

“He’s part of our team,” Gaby supplies quickly, darting a chiding look Napoleon’s way as he joins them on the ground floor.

“Napoleon Solo.” Napoleon steps forward, and his smile is charming as he takes Beaumont’s hand and presses a kiss to it in greeting. “My apologies for stealing your ring last night, and… also for the break-in.”

“That’s… fine.” Beaumont says, staring at Napoleon in shock. “What happened to your face?”

Napoleon says he was involved in a disagreement. It is clearly an understatement, but Beaumont politely doesn’t press the issue.

 

-

 

The safe turns out to be exactly as empty as Napoleon said, and Beaumont stands in front of it, confusion on her face. Her jewels are gone, as are, according to her, the discs and documents Russell had left her before her disappearance. The only thing left behind is something that looks painfully identical to the bomb they had discovered in the apartment. After the earlier lesson, Napoleon had found and disarmed it with no trouble.

“I don’t understand,” Beaumont says. “Why would they try to kill me?”

“You know,” Napoleon replies, “I don’t think it’s you they were trying to kill.”

The painting in the apartment had only been disturbed very recently, judging by the clean line in the dust. And Beaumont’s reaction tells them that she has been using her safe regularly. It means that whoever installed the explosives had only done so in the last few days.

Since the arrival of UNCLE’s team.

“You think you were the target?” Beaumont says.

“We also found a bomb inside the safe in your apartment,” says Illya. “It seems like whoever put them there is trying to end the investigation before it gets any further.”

“Which means Russell is definitely in trouble,” Gaby muses.

Illya chances a look at Napoleon, and finds him staring at Beaumont, a thoughtful expression on his face. Inexplicably, Illya remembers his flirtations with her at the gala, and forcibly stamps down an unwelcome rush of bitterness.

Napoleon's interests have nothing to do with him. Nothing at all.

 

-

 

With no other leads to pursue, they can only return to the safehouse, and wait for Gaby to pick the explosives apart. The chances are slim, but still, it's possible that there’s something there that can give them the hint they need. Beaumont insists on coming with them, and after a vote (which Illya loses), they give her permission.

It’s night by the time they arrive back, and the safehouse feels even tinier with four people inside. Napoleon immediately gravitates to the kitchen, promising to make them all a quick and delicious dinner. Beaumont offers to help, and Illya returns to the room he had spent the night in before.

Without the mission to distract him it’s harder to keep his thoughts away from Napoleon, but still, Illya does his best. He hides in the bedroom until the call comes for dinner, and methodically eats his plate of (admittedly delicious) risotto. Napoleon and Beaumont are already joking like old friends, and Gaby tells a story of how Napoleon had cooked her something that smelled like feet the first time they met.

Afterward, Illya goes back to his bedroom, and sits a while more, staring at the empty plate left inside for a long time before he takes it back to the now empty kitchen. Gaby has commandeered the living room, and is carefully picking apart the explosives. Though he trusts her technical skills, Illya wonders if they shouldn't clear out of the area just to be on the safe side. In the end, he offers his assistance, and is firmly rebuffed.

The house is suffocating, and before long, Illya escapes toward the small garden behind the building. He doesn’t expect to hear the soft murmur of conversation, which comes to an abrupt stop the moment he opens the back door.

Napoleon is outside, standing under the silver moonlight, staring at him in surprise. Beaumont is at his side, sitting in a garden chair, a flashlight and a book resting on the small table in front of them. They look like they had been at ease, right up until the moment of Illya’s intrusion.

For a second, they stare at each other. Then Napoleon turns toward Beaumont with a smile.

“I think I’ll head in for the night.”

“Goodnight, Mr. Solo,” Beaumont replies, her expression soft.

“You alright to keep an eye on her?” Napoleon says as he walks past. Illya nods, and Napoleon disappears through the door.

Then there is only Illya and Beaumont.

It’s a lovely night, crisp and cool. The sky is dark and never-ending, as inscrutable as the ocean.

For a while, Illya just stands, hoping Beaumont would not try to make conversation, but eventually, he folds himself into one of the other chairs, and tiredly scans their surroundings. The garden is fenced by tall hedges, and they are about as safe as can be expected, given that they’re sitting together outside. Illya glances at the book in Beaumont’s hands, and realizes with a start that it’s the same book of poetry Napoleon had tried to give him on the day of the gala. Whoever had brought across their belongings must have packed the book as well.

Beaumont is absorbed in whatever words she’s reading, and flips another page.

Had Napoleon given it to her? Illya looks away, but his gaze drifts back again, a strange feeling of jealousy worming into his gut. What had Napoleon been thinking? Does he give love poetry to every person he meets? The American is impossible to understand.

“Are you interested in this book, Mr. Kuryakin?”

Beaumont’s voice is gentle, and Illya’s gaze snaps up to see her watching him in amusement.

“No,” Illya says. She’ll know it’s a lie, but Illya does not care.

The woman’s smile is soft as she turns back to the pages. “It’s a very fascinating collection. You don’t see many tomes of homoerotic poetry around. I wonder where Mr. Solo found it.”

“What?” The word slips out before Illya can stop it, and the memory of Napoleon in the hotel room, a grin on his face as he passed the book to Illya, flashes across his mind. He’d never made it past the front cover before they were distracted by the arrival of an unknown man, yet Beaumont seems confident. _Homoerotic_ , if that word means what Illya thinks it means, then it had really been another prank, it had to be. He was mocking you, Illya thinks. Napoleon knows, and he had wanted Illya to know it.

But then he remembers Napoleon’s wide eyes, his flustered defense – _you can read it to Gaby_ – and he’s not quite sure.

Beaumont is studying his reaction, and whatever she observes has anger settling in her expression.

“It’s love poetry, Mr. Kuryakin,” she says coldly, “Being the same sex as the person you admire does not diminish the purity of your feelings for them.”

“It’s wrong,” Illya replies, unprepared for the intensity of her reaction. It doesn’t make sense for her to leap out and defend something like that, as though the innocent people who would be sacrificed to those kinds of desires simply do not matter. It had been perverted men, like Makarov, like… Illya, that had destroyed Yuri. He still remembers Yuri’s shadowed eyes, his whimpering cries, how he had withered over the weeks and months. How can something so disgusting ever be excused?

“And who decided that for you?” Beaumont bites back, her volume rising with her anger. “What is wrong about two people who love each other desiring to be together?”

Illya scoffs, yet for some reason he can’t meet her eyes. Two people who love each other? Who want to be with- “You make it sound like…”

“Like what?”

Like it’s natural. But that’s not… that’s not what it is, that’s not what happens. “It doesn’t work like that,” Illya says.

Makarov’s sneering countenance. Barath’s hungry eyes. Yuri’s terrified sobs. _What makes you think I didn’t want to do it?_

“And how would you know that?”

Illya falters. “I could ask you the same question.”

It’s a transparent diversion, and Beaumont has every right to point out the fact. Yet she only stares at him, frozen with a shock that seems too strong for simply being caught by her own trap. Then, she drops the book and the flashlight, and stumbles to her feet, murmuring under her breath in rapid French. Illya only catches a few words, _coward, idiot_ , before she disappears back into the house.

Illya isn’t quite sure what just happened, but he’s won, even if his victory leaves his chest hollow. Beaumont is gone, yet her words echo in Illya’s ears, and his eyes drift to the book left open on the table.

In the dark, he picks up the flashlight, and points it at the pages of the book. Spanish words are printed in neat writing, as though each letter is precious to the person penning the poem.

_I send this dove from Tuna to you._  
_With its endearing eyes and whitest feathers_  
_it spreads love's fire…_

What is wrong about two people who love each other desiring to be together? Nothing, but that’s not what it is, that’s not what Illya is. It’s pain, it’s violence, it’s destruction in its most sinister form, and for almost a decade, Illya has lived with the awareness of what it is capable of. He remembers Yuri’s empty eyes, the bright splash of red against the concrete, memories that have blurred together countless times with the faces of those dead at Illya’s hand.

But possibility takes root in his mind. Because what if? What if somehow, two men simply fell in love? What if it’s not forcefulness and terror, but… bittersweet like yearning? What if two men wanted each other in the same way? Is that what Beaumont described? Where desire can be something as beautiful as the way his father had loved his mother.

Can that be what Illya has been feeling? He’s not Makarov, he will never, ever do the things he has done. The thought of it alone is terrifying. So maybe, maybe that does make him different. Illya wants Napoleon, but not to hurt him, never to hurt him. He remembers the pain of watching Napoleon being beaten by Barath’s men. The threat of that pale knife. Despair, bitter and poisonous, that came with understanding that he was solely to blame for the bruises marring Napoleon’s beautiful face. That moment in the chair, when his own death had made more sense compared to Napoleon’s death.

That constant, urgent need that thrums in his veins and saps at his sanity whenever Napoleon is nearby.

Maybe, just maybe…

_Such is my heart---by night and through the day_  
_deprived of you it cries pure melancholy,_  
_imprisoned in dark love that will not die._

Illya turns the page.

 

-

 

When Illya finally returns inside, Gaby and Napoleon are together in the living room, chatting softly to one another. The bombs sit on the coffee table in pieces, completely dismantled, and they both have smiles on their faces.

Illya stares, his mind a confused haze as Beaumont’s words swirl in his mind alongside something dangerously alike to hope. He doesn’t know what to do with this new revelation. Possibilities he has never considered, that he still doesn’t quite believe, shine light on a potential he has never known existed.

Napoleon and Gaby both look toward him as he approaches, and Gaby’s face lights up.

“Look what I found,” she says with a grin, holding up a metal piece shaped like a coin.

Illya reaches forward, and takes it into his hand. There’s a strange marking on it that Illya doesn’t recognize.

Beside him, Napoleon chuckles softly. Illya looks up, and there is a confident smile curling Napoleon’s lips. The eyes that turn to Illya are a brilliant blue, and it sends Illya’s thoughts spiraling into chaos.

“I know where we have to go,” Napoleon says, and there’s the same spark in his eyes that Illya fell in love with, long ago.

Illya’s mind fills with whispers of _oh no_.

_Oh no._

 

-

 

The next morning, Napoleon drives the four of them across the city to a corner of the outer banlieues. The entire way, Gaby prods at Napoleon, trying to make him tell them where they’re headed, but Napoleon stays determinedly uncooperative. Again, Illya can only stare out the window so he isn’t distracted by the other man, and he watches as the city outside becomes steadily drearier the further they travel.

They stop outside a small hardware store, and Napoleon leads them inside. Assorted tools and supplies hang from hooks, filling the space alongside tubs of screws and coils of electric wiring. A man sits behind the counter, warily regarding the four of them. Illya can’t see his hands, but he has a distinct feeling they’re resting on some kind of weapon.

Napoleon makes straight for the cashier, a friendly smile on his face. “Good morning,” he says, “I’m here to see your boss.”

“I own this store,” the man says in accented English, frowning.

“My name is Napoleon Solo,” Napoleon continues without missing a beat, “And the last I checked, I’m still on your guest list.”

The man considers him a moment, and then picks up the phone on the counter, punching in a few numbers. Illya watches, wary of any unexpected movements. Behind him, Gaby is examining the wares on offer. Beaumont watches them too, anxious.

“Boss?” the man says, this time in French, “There’s someone named Napoleon Solo here to see you.”

There’s a quick exchange of words, and then the man nods at them and tells them to wait. A minute later, footsteps sound from behind the storefront, and a woman in grey overalls emerges from the doorway. Her thick black hair is tied back and secured behind a patterned head scarf, and her clothes are a far cry from the elegant dress she had worn all those nights ago, but recognition hits Illya like a punch to the gut.

“Asha,” Napoleon says, his tone unashamedly flirtatious.

“Solo.” The woman looks over him curiously. “What happened to your face?”

Napoleon had been lying when he implied those things. He must have been. Illya remembers Vinciguerra, remembers the countless women since then, and he stares at the figure standing in front of them in this moment. Napoleon likes women.

 _Are you sure about that?_ Napoleon had said, so close, his skin warm against Illya’s chest, his lips close enough to kiss.

Illya isn’t sure at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Extended warning: Though not explicitly stated, Illya was witness to the abuse of a childhood friend, and the experience (aided by state propaganda) staunchly trapped him in the conviction that homosexual behaviour is the equivalent to rape. He grapples with this issue and recalls various traumatic memories several times throughout the chapter.]
> 
> The poetry referenced is the 'Gongoran sonnet in which the poet sends a dove to his beloved' by Federico García Lorca, which can be found in full [here](http://spanishpoems.blogspot.com.au/2007/06/federico-garca-lorca-soneto-gongorino.html#2353982289663026712). He has an entire collection of poetry inspired by his personal love affair called the Sonnets of Dark Love, which you can find a translation of [here](http://www.paularcher.net/translations/federico_garcia_lorca/sonnets_of_dark_love/index.html) if you are interested.
> 
> As for the Beaumont mansion, it is based on a [real mansion](http://www.treshautediva.com/treshautedivablog/2015/4/3/crush-of-the-day-van-dyck-paris-france) that does exist in the exact corner of Paris described, and you can buy it for a cool $13.6 million.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the abnormally long wait! I first got sidetracked by a new project (i.e. that ghost AU) and then real life deadlines could not be ignored. To compensate, here is an absurdly long chapter for you where a lot of things actually happen. All mistakes are mine.

Truth be told, Napoleon still isn’t sure whether the explosives had been intended as a warning or a serious attempt at assassination. But it can’t be denied that the introduction of bombs added an unexpected element of danger to their already confusing mission. Explosions make a far louder statement than a simple bullet to the head. Whichever group of renegades Janine Russell had gotten herself involved with, her new friends have shown a remarkable willingness for causing destruction.

By now, the people who planted the bomb would likely know their explosives have been found. But what they won’t know is that their attempt to remove Napoleon and his team from the situation has given him a new way to expose them. Napoleon had nursed a small hope when Gaby decided to take the explosives apart. And indeed, they were lucky.

Asha is, as always, looking lovely even in her working clothes. The same can’t be said for Napoleon at least for the next week or two, and though he had never thought of himself as a particularly vain person (proud of his appearance, certainly), Napoleon can’t deny the slight sting of having his appearance commented on by yet another beautiful woman.

“Had an encounter with a few unfriendly fellows,” he explains with a small smile. “I assure you they look much worse.” Courtesy of Illya.

Asha appraises him for a moment. “You wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with that factory fire, would you?”

“I assure you I was not the one who set the fire.”

Asha’s eyes narrow, reading what she needs from what he doesn’t say. Mercifully, she drops the topic, her gaze flitting to the people standing behind him. Napoleon’s grin broadens, and he turns to the team, who watch them with a mix of confused and thoughtful expressions.

“Everyone, this is Asha Mathai,” Napoleon says by way of introduction. “Brilliant engineer and demolitions expert.” As well as his dinner companion several nights ago.

He chances a glance at Illya and finds the most endearingly confused expression sitting on the Russian’s face. Napoleon’s heart does bizarre flips at the sight, a fact which he ignores. Feeling slightly angry with his inability to control his emotions, Napoleon finishes the introductions.

Asha’s meets everyone with an expression of polite interest, but her patience lasts only until the greetings end. With a nod to Napoleon’s team and a murmured: “Please excuse us for a moment”, she grabs his wrist and pulls him through the doorway into the corridor beyond.

“Was it necessary to bring an entire entourage?” she hisses, eyes blazing.

“They’re friends,” Napoleon says, deploying his best imploring eyes. In other circumstances he would have made this trip alone. But with most of them exposed and their unknown enemy out to kill them, it’s undeniably better to have back-up than to be caught by himself in a bad situation, Illya’s hotheadedness and overprotective instincts aside.

Well, there’s that, and the fact that politely asking them to stay behind had yielded no compliance whatsoever.

Asha doesn’t look entirely appeased, but Napoleon counts it as a win when she nods and waves for the group to follow her. Together, they move down the hallway to the back of the store, which opens out into a spacious garage converted into a workshop. There are electronic parts, metal fragments, and pieces of wiring littered on every surface, alongside countless unfinished projects. Gaby lights up like a kid in a candy store, and Élodie stares at everything with a mix of curiosity and alarm. Napoleon decides against looking too much at Illya.

“Careful what you touch if you want to keep all your fingers.” Asha says as she heads for the back of the room for a more private conversation.

Napoleon follows, feeling genuinely cheerful for the first time in a while, now that there is a chance they might catch Russell, or at least the people she is working with.

Asha comes to a stop at the end of a long workbench in a corner of the room, and Napoleon slows when he reaches the other end. She’s frowns slightly as a soft clang sounds over Napoleon’s shoulder, her eyes flitting toward someone out of sight before she turns back to Napoleon. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

Napoleon reaches into his pocket, pulls out the metal piece, and tosses it toward Asha. She catches it smoothly, and her frown deepens as she studies it.

“Where did you get this?” she says sharply.

“Out of a bomb planted in a Champs-Élysées apartment. I was hoping you could shed some light on how it got there.”

Napoleon’s acquaintance with Asha stretches back for well over the decade of his CIA affiliation. Back during his days as a marauding thief, the pair of them had crossed paths several times. Though his particular style of larceny rarely called for pyrotechnics, in their line of work, word of people skilled in their craft always spread. It took only a brief exchange in a Luxembourg bar for Napoleon to become familiar with a woman who is both whip smart and immensely talented in her work. As these things went, conversations and a few night-time dalliances led to something akin to friendship.

The symbol on the metal piece belongs to Asha, each line and angle reflective of some secret code that only she understands. Just like great artists like to sign their work, Asha also prefers to leave a memento in the traps and explosives she creates. Whether it is pride or a conscious rejection of humility, Napoleon has never been sure. But it’s the bad habit that had gained her fame as one of the most reliable and ingenious craftsmen in the industry, and also the bad habit that ultimately got her caught and collared by French intelligence, transforming her from rogue to informant.

There is nothing like shared circumstances to build camaraderie between a pair of unfortunate souls.

“I’m not sure you're entitled to that information, Solo,” Asha says, her eyes darting to him briefly. Despite her words, she’s toying with the metal piece, her face drawn with thoughtful interest.

Napoleon frowns. An initial rejection is not exactly unexpected, and he opts for levity in his response. “Not even after that wonderful dinner we shared?”

At that, Asha’s lips curve in a small smile. “Just a friendly catch-up, were the words you used. Don’t think I didn’t know you were just using me to help your cover.”

“You were much more than that, Asha.” Napoleon returns, his smile flirtatious by habit.

Asha doesn’t bite, but she speaks with a tone of fond amusement. “I think there may have been a miscommunication between us on that matter.”

They had gotten a little bit carried away with the overt flirting that night. But it had been part of their usual back-and-forth, entertaining, fun, and ultimately meaningless. He had reached out to her knowing she’d be up for a game of flirtation and a free dinner. The knowledge that Illya would be on the other end, listening, had only pushed him further. Napoleon remembers Illya’s odd reaction that he had wanted so badly to call jealousy, the way he had accused him of abandoning a date. At the time they had seemed like signs of hope, yet when he recalls that night in the bathroom, Illya’s eyes dark and his back stiff with anger and betrayal, his antics during that dinner abruptly seems both petty and pointless.

Napoleon’s mirth fades, but his smile does not change. “And here I thought I was more to you than just a pretty face,” he says, feigning disappointment.

“If you really need to know,” Asha says, her expression softening a little, “I can make a few calls and get the proper authorization. But it will take time.”

Time which Napoleon would rather not waste, even though he knows his UNCLE credentials will check out. “How long?”

“Only a few hours if you’re lucky. A week if you’re not.” Asha steps away toward a desk and the phone atop of it, sitting among a row of notebooks and stacks of papers.

Napoleon glances toward his teammates and sees disapproval in their frowns. Illya in particular looks like he is already losing patience. The longer they wait, the more likely it is Russell will be killed, or they will be found by whoever it is trying to take them out. Napoleon follows after Asha, joining her side at the desk just as she is pulling open a notebook filled with numbers. “I can’t convince you to bend the rules just this once?”

“You might not mind getting in trouble, Solo, but some of us prefer not to piss off the people we work for.”

“It’s just things are a little bit urgent for us.” Napoleon glances down at Asha’s list of contacts out of professional curiosity and finds it almost indecipherable. There doesn’t seem to be any structure to the way it is organized, a list of phone numbers behind either initials, codenames, full names, Hindi letters, or what reads like complete gibberish. Yet one name stands out among the crowd: M. Barath.

Napoleon frowns, confusion surfacing alongside an unsettling feeling he can't place. “You know Mark Barath?”

Asha glances down at the list. “Sure, he’s a colleague.”

“As in a fellow informant to the DST?” The Direction de la Surveillance du Territoir, that is, the domestic intelligence arm of the French National Police, currently holds Asha under its thumb. Under their command, she is encouraged to sell explosives to unsavory folk as long as she makes steady reports on who is buying and where her merchandise is going.

“That’s right,” Asha says, flipping the pages, “I refer him business, and he feeds information back to the Directorate.”

Such a small world, this business. First the CIA, and now the DST, Napoleon wonders just how many pies Barath had his fingers in. No wonder he could afford such a lavish lifestyle, with his loyalty for sale to that many different organizations. 

“You might have some trouble with that from now on,” Napoleon muses lightly.

“How come?”

“Well, ther-“

“Wait,” Illya says sharply, his voice cutting through Napoleon’s response.

Napoleon and Asha turn toward him in unison, alarmed. Illya’s face is serious, his brow knit together in unexplained worry, and Napoleon’s confusion deepens.

“Is something wrong?” Asha says.

“The DST, do they ever requisition your explosives?”

Asha frowns. “Of course.”

At Asha’s admission, Illya’s expression shifts into alarm, and strangely enough, anger. Napoleon stares, confusion muddling his thoughts.

“We need to go,” Illya says, his gaze turning to rest on Napoleon.

“What’s going on?” Gaby looks between the two of them, brows drawn. Élodie too, stares at them with wide, worried eyes, looking increasingly uncomfortable.

The bombs could belong to the DST. Barath is their informant. Twice is a coincidence. Napoleon reads the urgency in Illya’s eyes, and something shifts at the back of his mind, unsettling moments and missed connections sharpening into a coherent whole. They had known about his past, back in the park, they had known he was ten years into a fifteen year sentence, information the CIA had no reason to share. Three times…

The implications of Illya’s words snap into clarity.

“He’s right,” Napoleon says, his insides twisting violently with dread. Illya’s gaze is hard, yet the understanding that passes between them is a thin thread of reassurance.

“Solo?” Asha murmurs, bewildered.

Napoleon considers Asha, weighing facts and the possibility that she knows. “Asha, if you want to help us, you need to tell us what we need to know, now.”

There is movement on the edge of his vision, and Illya is pulling out his gun, pointing it directly at Asha. Startled, she takes a half step back, raising her hands slowly.

“Napoleon? What the fuck?”

“Illya, put the gun down,” Napoleon says.

“You trust her?” Illya growls.

“Will someone please explain what is going on?” Gaby is shouting.

“This is a trap,” Illya says. “They wanted us to come here.”

His gun is still pointed at Asha, and Napoleon glances over to find her glaring at him with wide and accusing eyes. There is a point to Illya’s suspicion, but Napoleon recalls her reactions and finds a complete absence of duplicity. More than that, he is willing to trust their friendship. “She isn’t part of this, Illya.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Then why would she have told us the truth?”

“I don’t know what you think I’m involved in,” Asha cuts in, “but there isn’t any kind of trap here.”

“That you know of,” Napoleon adds. Asha’s glare turns glacial.

Illya’s gaze flickers between them, and Napoleon can see his resolve wavering.

“Bring your files,” he says to Asha, “We’re leaving, now.”

“There is nothing-“

“Do you still trust me?” Napoleon says urgently, watching as Asha’s eyes grow wide with surprise. She stares at him, then at Illya, and Gaby, Élodie. Something passes behind her expression, resolve settling into place.

“Yes.”

Illya’s gun lowers hesitantly.

“Then come with us.” Napoleon says, glancing up at a door set in the wall behind her. “Is that another way out of here?”

“Yes.” Asha nods at the exit before she turns to scan the row of notebooks on the desk, pulling out two and slipping them into the pouch of her overalls. “I’ll go get Marco.” She can only mean the man watching the front of the store, he’s no one Napoleon has met before, yet Asha seems to trust him willingly.

“I still don’t know what is going on,” Gaby says, pulling out her own weapon. “But I’ll go with her.”

Napoleon nods once at her. “Be careful. Élodie, come with me.”

Illya wavers between them, and for a brief moment, his gaze meets Napoleon’s. He looks ready to speak, but then hesitates, and takes off to follow Gaby.

Napoleon moves to the door, ignoring the way his chest pangs at Illya’s new absence. He pulls out his gun as he moves, and looks through the small window to see nothing but a brick wall across the alleyway. If they’re right, there will be people waiting.

What is the chance this is all just an enormous misunderstanding? He can already imagine Illya’s embarrassment if everything turns out to be fine, as well as his own, for following and believing Illya’s reasoning.

The solid boom of a shotgun comes from the front of the store. Napoleon whirls, shoving down instinctive panic, and grabs Élodie’s wrist as she tries to head toward the noise. His other hand is already twisting at the door handle.

“We’re leaving.”

Perhaps the attack has begun, or Marco is less friendly than Asha had believed. At least one of them needs to get out, and Napoleon trusts his team enough to know that they can take care of themselves in whatever situation they had just walked into. He opens the door, and ducks as he steps through it, gun raised to check both directions. For now, the alleyway is clear. Either the shot had been enough of a distraction or they are leaving too early for their enemy to have moved fully into position. He pulls Élodie through, the door clicking shut behind them.

They barely make it out of the alley when the building explodes.

The shockwave catches Napoleon and throws him violently forward, the world shattering in a cacophony of flame and noise as the jarring impact knocks the air from his lungs. Dust and debris rains down around them in slabs of brick and grains of shattered glass. Shock is the first thing that registers, and afterwards, bruising pain along his back and at his shoulders as fragments of stone slide off him toward the pavement. Napoleon pushes himself to his knees, his feet unsteady and his ears ringing.

Beside him, Élodie is pushing at the ground, groaning. Napoleon stumbles over and hauls her to her feet. Survival is the only thing he can afford to focus on in that moment. He can’t think about other things, like how their suspicions are as good as confirmed, or the possibility that everyone else may have gotten caught in that explosion, Illya, who might very well be… No. His priority is getting Élodie and himself away to safety.

“We need to go!” he shouts, coughing as he inhales dust.

“What about-”

Élodie’s words are cut off as gunfire sounds from the near distance, bullets flying past them in the settling dust. They duck instantly, and Napoleon grabs at her wrist, pulling her into a run.

The gunfire doesn’t stop, and the wall cracks with bullet-holes as they sprint by. Napoleon has no familiarity with their surroundings, and leads them with instinct away from the source of the gunshots. An opening approaches and Napoleon veers down the alleyway, pulling Élodie behind him. They lose themselves in the twisting streets, their feet slapping against the pavement, cutting across parks and through buildings to get away from their pursuers. The few people they encounter scatter and scream, cowering as they dash past.

They exit another alleyway and break out onto a road, the sound of gunshots now growing more distant. Salvation waits in the giant red and white form of a bus, idling at the curb. Napoleon makes a snap decision and sprints forward. In the next moment, he leaps onto the bus, pulling Élodie on behind him just as the doors are sliding shut.

The driver barely glances at them before he begins to drive off, but every single person on the bus is gaping at them. Napoleon smiles, pulls off his singed jacket, and awkwardly dusts at his hair to get rid of the ash and powder from the explosion. Behind him, Élodie shrinks a little, trying to hide.

“You'll both need tickets,” says a skinny young man in a conductor’s uniform.

 

-

 

They take the bus to a new part of town and get a room at the first hotel they see. On their way up, Napoleon steals a couple’s suitcase from the lobby, and empties its contents on top of the bed of their room. 

At their first moment of something close to security, Élodie finally breaks down. She stands rigidly in a corner of the room, staring blankly as Napoleon sorts through the clothes, pulling out mostly fitting pieces they can safely change into.

“What just happened?” There’s a tremor in her voice. “The building exploded. There were people shooting at us.”

“It was a trap,” Napoleon replies stiffly. One that he walked them right into. He bites back a string of ugly curses.

“They knew we were coming?”

“I’d say the evidence points to yes.”

“But how?”

“Not now,” Napoleon says, handing a stack of clothes to Élodie, which she takes in alarm. “Go get cleaned up, we need to move.”

Within fifteen minutes they’re out on the street again, Napoleon wrapped in a fresh black jacket and Élodie in a plain white dress. Two bus trips later, they find refuge in a quaint establishment surrounded by trees, and check in with their stolen suitcase as an American couple taking a spontaneous European vacation. 

The room they’re given is neither large nor small, with windows overlooking the street outside. The moment the door clicks shut behind them, Élodie takes two steps and sinks onto the couch. Napoleon closes the curtains and checks through the room, cataloguing useful hiding places and potential escape routes.

“Are we safe?” Élodie says, watching him warily.

“For now.” Napoleon forces himself to sit down in a chair, hyperaware of his gun tucked in its holster.

For a moment, Élodie is silent, and then she speaks again. “How did- how did they find us?”

Napoleon studies her tiredly, takes in her nervousness and confusion, and rises to pour them both some water. “They knew Asha and I are friends,” he says, reaching for the pitcher on the table, “and they deliberately used her explosives so we’d be baited to visit her if we managed to disarm them. It was a set-up from the beginning.” The plan was a clever one, and Napoleon cursed himself for not suspecting. He was careless, too careless in assuming that their find had been as simple as a brilliant stroke of luck.

“You said something about the DST?”

Napoleon hands Élodie a glass, which she takes gratefully. She takes one sip, and then drains the entire glass, setting it back on the table in the next moment with a deep breath.

“There’s a good chance someone from the agency is involved,” Napoleon says.

“How do you know that?”

“Logic. Janine went missing after she met with Barath, whose henchmen knew things the CIA wouldn't possibly have shared. He works for the DST. The bombs we found planted in your properties led us to Asha. Asha is a DST informant, whose bombs are regularly requisitioned by the organization. Finally, they were waiting for us outside Asha's workshop, knowing that would be our next stop. Who else but the DST would know to look for us there?”

"But why would they attack their own asset?"

"Anyone is disposable in this line of work, Élodie."

The evidence is there, even if it is tenuous. Napoleon can’t be sure if it happens to be the French government they are inadvertently fighting against or simply someone misappropriating its resources. But if someone in one of the French agencies is a mole, then their entire mission is compromised. Someone would have been watching them perhaps since the very start. The real question is how long they’ve known. Was Napoleon the one who had exposed them by contacting Asha? Or had they known even before?

All of this could be his fault. Napoleon doesn’t know where Illya is, if he’s even still alive, and he can only pray that Gaby and Asha are also safe. Already, his mind is supplying worst case scenarios, and every single one features Illya, possibly hurt and bleeding out in an alley somewhere, caught by enemy agents and put to torture, or maybe already dead. Napoleon’s heart races a mile a minute, his agitation threatening to worsen into full-blown fury.

He can’t wait a second longer.

“Stay here,” Napoleon says, rising to his feet. “I need to report in.” If his team escaped, then they would contact Waverly first thing. It’s his best bet at finding them again.

“What?” Élodie starts, inching forward, “I’m coming with you.”

“No. You’ll be safe here. I won’t be long.”

He’s out the door again before Élodie can get another word out.

 

-

 

Napoleon finds a public phone booth just a block from the hotel, and makes the call with slightly shaking hands. He speaks the approved codes, and waits with gritted teeth as he is connected through a secure line.

“Solo?”

On the other end, Waverly is unaffected as always, the perfect English gentleman. Today, it grates at Napoleon’s nerves.

“We’ve been compromised.”

“What happened?” Waverly’s voice sharpens in concern.

Napoleon explains the situation as succinctly as he can, fighting to keep his words from becoming a rough, halting ramble. He should be more controlled than this, he’s been in worse situations and came out on top. But Illya is missing, and that fact alone scratches at the fringes of his awareness, picking at his frail composure.

Illya is fine. He is the KGB’s best. He is probably UNCLE’s best. Those shots never landed.

Waverly is silent when Napoleon finishes, so he controls his breathing and waits.

“If anyone else makes contact, I’ll let them know where you are.” Waverly says. “If no one shows up within two hours, there will be extraction waiting for you and Miss Beaumont at Point E.”

“Understood.”

“And Agent Solo?”

“Yes?”

“I hope you understand that you are to lay low until that time, and be at the extraction point should the time come. I will do whatever it takes to recover Agent Kuryakin and Teller.”

‘Don’t do anything stupid’ is Waverly’s unsaid instruction, and Napoleon swallows a small, bitter laugh. Is he that transparent?

“Yes sir,” he says, and hangs up the phone.

 

-

 

Élodie is still waiting in the hotel room when he returns. As the minutes pass, she curls into herself in a corner of the couch, shoes kicked onto the carpet. Napoleon waits at the window, staring out onto the street through the gap in the curtains. He doesn’t pace, but the urge looms at the edge of his mind. For a long time, they are still, each caught up in their own thoughts, their own regrets.

“Will we find her?” Élodie says suddenly.

Napoleon glances across at the young woman, and reads her fright in her tense shoulders, her arms wrapped tightly around her legs, her misery in her pale, forlorn eyes. “We’ll do our best.”

He doesn’t lie, because they can both guess enough of the truth. Two months is a long time for anyone to be missing. The Vinciguerras had killed Gaby’s father the moment they got what they wanted. Though it’s possible Russell may be still alive, and a willing servant under a patron who finally recognizes her talent, or fighting every day for a chance at freedom, it is just as likely she has suffered that same fate, if not worse. There’s no way for them to know.

“I should have been there.” Élodie’s voice is barely a whisper, and edged with a hysteria Napoleon is familiar enough with to know is born of agonizing guilt. He’s heard that same tone in his head before, in moments he can’t ever afford to remember. It plays in his head even now.

_You should have seen it coming._

“There’s nothing you could have done,” he says gently.

“I could have been there for her,” Élodie says, burying her face in her knees. “I was such a coward.”

“Love makes fools of us all.”

Says one fool to another, Napoleon thinks in the ensuing silence, remembering his own madness. Had it been fear or courage that had driven him to provoke Illya that night? Perhaps there is no difference.

Élodie does not deny his allusion, and Napoleon takes it for a confirmation. A pair of close friends whose relationship survived time and distance, a shared apartment in the heart of the city, the particular company she keeps yet will not admit to, and above all, her fear and remorse that weighs too heavily to be born of anything less than love. The signs have always been there, and in retrospect, there are too many to list.

“We were going to run away together,” Élodie murmurs after a time, “just the two of us.”

“What made you stay?” Napoleon’s gaze drifts back to the street, searching the passing figures for a familiar figure.

A long silence, and Napoleon imagines the suffocating guilt that comes with betraying the one person you thought you’d die to protect. The pain that rips through his chest takes him back to the moment in the bathroom, to the memory of heartbreak barely contained in Illya’s eyes.

“I was scared,” Élodie says, her quiet voice tinged with despair. “I’ve only ever known one kind of life. I thought I’d be fine. She was so excited. And then… I realized I couldn’t even fathom it, the kind of life we’d be walking into. The only possibilities seemed like terrible ones. We’d be fugitives, we’d be robbed, or we’d run out of money and starve.”

Her doubts were probably not wrong. Happily ever afters are more often found in fairy tales than in real life. Yet understanding never makes heartbreak feel any less painful, that Napoleon knows.

“I thought I’d be the one protecting her.”

“You’re helping us find her, Élodie,” Napoleon says. His reassurance sounds hollow even to his own ears.

“I just want to see her again,” Élodie whispers. “I want to tell her I’m sorry.”

Napoleon’s mind, the traitorous, selfish thing that it is, drifts to the memory of an unfairly handsome man, a tall, imposing figure silhouetted against the sky, hair golden under the sun.

Only strangers pass by on the street below.

 

-

 

The first knock on their door happens in the second hour, heavy and loud, three times a familiar sound.

Illya. Anxiety drains from Napoleon with every thud, replaced with warm, dizzying relief. He’s at the door before the third knock has faded, and the greeting dies on his lips the moment he sees Illya, revealed with stiff shoulders and wide eyes that instantly fix on Napoleon.

Napoleon doesn’t know how to interpret what he sees, something raw and open and so vulnerable that it might be fear, might be longing. The moment catches him unprepared, and in his urgency to see Illya again he realizes too late he had forgotten to wear his usual mask of detachment. He forces his expression into something close to a friendly smile.

Illya is unharmed, Napoleon confirms that for himself the moment he remembers to tear his gaze away from Illya’s eyes. He feels himself undergoing the same scrutiny, and steps aside to let the Russian walk through the door into relative safety.

“Are you hurt?” Napoleon says, driven by a need he does not question.

“I’m fine,” Illya replies curtly, stopping in the middle of the room. “Gaby and Asha?”

Napoleon shakes his head.

Illya’s shoulders slump, and he looks around him, frustration visibly simmering beneath the surface.

“What happened?” Élodie says. “We heard shots.”

“The man, Marco, he tried to shoot us.”

“Asha’s friend?” Napoleon says.

“More like the DST’s dog. We got to him first, and then more people showed up outside.” Illya growls, his eyes intent and blazing with fury. “We barely got out when the building exploded, I lost track of Gaby and Asha.”

Napoleon nods, his fear resurfacing at the new information. “Do you think…?”

“They’ll be fine, they have to be.”

There’s still twenty minutes until Waverly’s deadline, and so they settle down to wait.

Thoughts of Gaby and Asha are a dangerous road, and one Napoleon doesn’t dare to go down, not when there is still time for them to show up alive and unharmed. Illya is right there in the middle of Napoleon’s vision, and in his desperation to find something safer to dwell on, it becomes hard to focus on anything else.

It was one thing to tell himself that he could live with whatever consequences came after. Yet now that the consequences are here, and Illya stands in front of him, cold, distant, withdrawn into himself, Napoleon doesn’t know how to deal with his hurt. They could be strategizing, Napoleon could offer him a drink, say something light and teasing to alleviate the tension. Yet he can’t picture Illya’s reaction, doesn’t know if he will simply be ignored, or judged behind blank eyes. Uncertainty drains his energy before he can turn thoughts into action, and all he can manage is to stay frozen exactly where he is.

He’d known this would happen, expected it to, counted on it if only to bring into focus the very issue that makes Napoleon’s desires impossible. Napoleon tells himself this, that this is what he wanted, yet can’t bring himself to believe it when he only feels more and more hollow inside each time Illya avoids even looking at him. Illya’s distance and hate was supposed to make things easier, make it easier to relinquish anything soft and tender left in him, to recover interest in the countless attractive men and women who come his way. Yet the only thing Napoleon feels left with is his failure, underscored by the understanding that Illya will no longer choose to share his company and attention unless the situation demands it of him, that Napoleon is now only something to be tolerated, to be endured.

This is his fault, and this time, Napoleon is not sure if even an apology would be able to fix things.

 

-

 

Two minutes until the deadline, Gaby and Asha turn up together in new clothes looking almost no worse for the wear. No one says anything, but the sense of relief in the room feels almost palpable, the presence of everyone together reassuring despite the cramped room. By some miracle, all five of them had gotten out without barely anything more than scratches and bruises. When they piece their stories together, it reveals that their attackers had likely not anticipated that they would catch-on to their plan. The bomb had gone off too late, the waiting attackers were not properly in-place before they made their break, and it had bought them the precious minutes they'd needed to survive.

Asha, whose home and workshop is now absolutely destroyed, stands fuming in a corner, murmuring imprecations in English then French then Hindi. “I can’t believe it, those backstabbing bastards.”

Beside her, Gaby’s eyes are dark with fury. “What do we do now? Do we know for sure it’s the DST who pulled the attack?”

“It’s them,” Illya pulls an ID badge from his pocket, tossing it onto the coffee table. It is flipped open to reveal the insignia of the French Police. “I caught one, we had a nice chat. The agents were told we were terrorists, remnants of the OAS.”

“Algeria’s been independent for almost two years,” Napoleon says, incredulous. If he remembers his intelligence correctly, the OAS’ surviving leaders have all moved on to better things.

“Good agents tend not to question orders.” Illya makes it sound like a matter of fact.

That still leaves the glaring lie that was used to organize this operation against them. “So what,” Napoleon says, “Rogue elements in the DST?”

“Surely Waverly can set them right.” Gaby looks between the two of them.

“It doesn’t help us,” Illya says. “We still need to find Russell.”

“About that,” Asha steps forward, pulling from her jacket pocket one of the notebooks she had saved. She places it on the table and flips it open. The contents are coded as far as Napoleon can tell, but Asha seems to read it without problem, running a finger down the rows of numbers and text. In her other hand, she has the coin Napoleon had handed her, and she studies its markings carefully. “I have a record here of where these explosives come from. Here.” She taps at one of the entries. “They were ordered by someone under the name Philips, eight pieces were sent to a warehouse in Marseille.”

“That’s at least an eight hour drive.” Napoleon frowns, thinking over their options. Chasing the bomb’s origins feels like a slim lead, and yet…

“Not to mention they’ll be waiting for us,” Illya says, still as angry as before.

“Well, maybe it’s not a bad thing,” says Napoleon.

“What do you mean?” Gaby squints at him, confused.

Another bad idea is forming in Napoleon’s head, though this time, his bad idea may just be their best chance of turning things around. “If we let them catch one of us, there’s a good chance they’ll take us straight to where Russell is being kept.”

“Catch? They’re trying to kill us,” Illya snaps.

“I’m not suggesting that they stay captured.”

“It is too risky.”

“Do you have a better idea?” Napoleon cocks his head, regarding Illya curiously.

Illya opens his mouth for a retort before it snaps closed again, evidently without a better idea. Then, he frowns in thought. Napoleon watches, raising an eyebrow, and ignoring that stupidly familiar urge to smooth away the creases in Illya’s brow.

“We know where the warehouse is, we investigate it,” Illya says at long last, grumpy.

“There’s no way there’ll be anything left for us to find,” says Gaby.

“Why not pull out? Ask your boss to send in a new team?” Asha adds, looking among the three of them.

“That’s not going to happen,” Illya says.

“Why not?”

“UNCLE is new, and we aren’t exactly overflowing with resources,” Napoleon explains, “Most of it comes from the assistance of local agencies.” Agencies they can no longer trust, thanks to their new knowledge. “There’s no way we can mobilize anyone reliable on short notice. The longer we wait, the more likely they’ll move Russell before we can get to her.”

“So it’s just us?” Élodie, who had been watching everything silently, finally speaks.

“No,” Illya says, “You’re staying out of this.”

“What?”

“He’s right,” Napoleon adds, “You are a civilian, Élodie. You are not trained for this.”

“I am not leaving,” Élodie declares, increasingly flustered.

“You don’t have a choice,” Gaby says, “I’m sorry.”

“We can call Waverly and arrange for transportation. You need to leave Paris.” Napoleon turns toward her. “Find somewhere where you can safely spend some time, visit family, or take a vacation. We can take care of this.”

Élodie stares at them in outrage, her mouth open. “But-”

“Élodie,” Napoleon says, stepping forward. He stares into her eyes, his hand coming to grip her shoulders. “I promise you, I will do whatever it takes to bring Janine back to you. But this is too dangerous.”

His promise, for what it is worth, seems to calm Élodie slightly. She fixes her gaze on him, searching. Then, she blinks and looks away, motionless where she stands. “I don’t really have any choice but to trust you, do I?”

“I’m sorry, Élodie,” he says. “But I mean what I say.”

Élodie nods once. Behind them, the room is silent.

 

-

 

Napoleon’s plan, as unwise as it is, is the best plan the four of them manage to come up with. Investigating anything else will require time, which, after the last sequence of disasters, is something they can’t afford to lose. They convince Waverly who promise them back-up as soon as he can reach the right people, and Napoleon establishes himself as bait after another lengthy argument that ends with Illya storming out of the room. Asha, in her fury, insists on joining their mission, and they agree, if only for the fact that right now, they can use all the help they can get.

They make quick plans, separate, steal vehicles, and are on the road again by early morning.

A long, lonely drive leaves too much time for Napoleon to be stuck in his own head. Around their small car, the world comes slowly to life bathed in silver-blue light of dawn. And beneath the soft hum of the engine, the grind of tires against asphalt, there is only the voice of his own thoughts. As Asha snoozes in the back seat, Napoleon spirals into himself.

He had been too harsh on Illya, Napoleon sees it now, distills it from Élodie’s guilt and his personal misery. Illya had been prepared to die for him, had wanted to protect him, had made a mistake but had never for a moment meant to hurt him. Yet Napoleon had done the precise opposite in a moment of selfish weakness. He had known how Illya felt about men like that, men like him, and yet he’d pushed, knowing how much it would hurt, how the betrayal would burn.

Napoleon regrets what they’ve become, and the one thing that prevents him from writing off his guilt is the knowledge that he is squarely to blame for the way things have turned out. He had been greedy, selfish, and hurt Illya out of little more than pettiness and frustration for wanting something he’d always known Illya can’t give. It was supposed to make it easier, if their bond is badly enough damaged. Yet longing, however inappropriate, isn’t something you can sever simply because you decide to. That is another thing Napoleon has always known, yet he had chosen to punish Illya for his own lack of perspective.

He remembers an old aphorism, one he heard so long ago he can no longer remember the source. Trust is like a mirror, something you can never look at the same way once broken. What are his apologies even worth now? Every time things between them begin to improve Napoleon will forget himself and screw things up again. He wants, and he doesn’t know how to stop wanting, how to leave well enough alone. And every clumsy attempt he makes at taking what he wants has only served to push them further apart. How many times can he get away with it before Illya gives up on believing him?

Napoleon doesn’t know if apologizing will fix anything, but he needs to tell Illya he’s sorry. That he’s sorry for hurting him deliberately provoking a truth he’s always known. If, when, they get out of this, he will find Illya and take back the blame. If there is truly no going back, then it is the least he can do.

Illya may still hate him, he might never go back to looking at him the same way as before, but those are the consequences. He’s lived with the consequence of his first love for over ten years, and if he must, he can simply do it again.

He is good at living with consequences.

 

-

 

Napoleon checks into a hotel near the port with Gaby as husband and wife, entertained by the way her eyes narrow with a forced smile when he refers to her as darling in front of reception. They only need to be seen, show off to their enemy that they’re still alive, well, and closing in on them. Asha and Illya are also nearby, checking into smaller hotels and taking far more care to keep their presence a secret.

That evening, he makes sure Illya’s trackers are in place before he slips out of the hotel into the night. The warehouse Asha had provided is one of many standing by the docks, and Napoleon breaks inside with the ease of a practiced criminal. He makes his way toward the office with the apparent intent of stealing a look at their records.

It doesn’t take five minutes before the floodlights come on, right as he is crossing the floor toward the stairs. In moments, Napoleon finds himself surrounded by armed guards, shouting for him to surrender. He lets himself be manhandled and pressed to the ground, and when the strike comes, he is prepared.

Pain, then world flickers and fades to black.

 

-

 

Napoleon’s head is throbbing in pain when he wakes, his arms and neck strained and sore. It takes him a moment to realize that he is hanging from something, his wrists bound tightly with rope as his body drifts in space. His bare feet barely scrapes the floor, and his entire body weight hangs from his arms.

Napoleon opens one eye, and finds himself on one side of a dusty room, dimly lit by a naked bulb in the middle. There are dark splatters along the floor and the walls, and thick metal hooks hang from the ceiling in neat rows. He lets out a breath, and squeezes his eyes hut again, steeling his mind against the growing pain in his straining muscles. With luck, Illya will know exactly where he is, and they will be ready to mount a rescue mission for him and Russell both.

Hanging from a hook in an unknown location, Napoleon allows him a small moment to soak in the feeling of victory. He waits, not that he has anything better to do, and he counts to eight hundred before a door behind him slams open with a clang. Napoleon jerks in alarm, and the chain sways slightly, pulling him with it.

“Mr. Solo,” a voice sounds, masculine, familiar. Napoleon realizes with a start it is the same man who had spoken to him in the park several days ago. The man who knew of his sentencing, who had played at being Barath’s subordinate when he is now clearly anything but.

His captor steps into view, and Napoleon sees Pierre’s face for the first time. A middle aged man with brown eyes and dark hair, dressed in an expensive black suit. He looks more like a businessman than a villain, but then again, don’t they all?

Napoleon watches the man warily. “Pierre.”

“I must say it is remarkably brave, or perhaps more accurately, remarkably stupid of you to show up where you did. You had to have known you are walking into a trap.” Behind him, more men file into the room, each one tall, brawny, and looking distinctly unfriendly. They wear black combat fatigues, revealing nothing which may tell Napoleon whether they’re deceived agents or genuine enemies. The new arrivals settle around Napoleon, eyeing him with a hunger for violence Napoleon wishes he isn’t quite so familiar with seeing in people.

He opens his mouth to retort, before the scraping sound of something being dragged along concrete returns him to silence. It sounds too much like a body. Napoleon tries to look, yet he only manages to swing helplessly from his hook.

Then, Illya’s body is dragged into view, hanging limply between two more henchmen.

Napoleon’s heart plummets to his stomach, and for the first time since his capture, the icy grip of fear properly takes hold within him. Dried blood cakes Illya’s hair, and he doesn’t stir as the men take his bound wrists and hang him from a hook directly in front of Napoleon. Is he hurt? How badly? Napoleon swallows back his rising panic. Illya was supposed to find Napoleon and get him out. They couldn’t have found Illya so quickly. “How?”

Pierre reaches out a hand, and a man steps from beyond Napoleon’s vision, handing him something – Napoleon’s scanner. The moment recognition hits, understanding, guilt, and despair slam into Napoleon one after the other. His hands curl into fists.

“Well,” Pierre says, flicking the switch casually. The scanner comes into life, and a steady, quiet beep sounds in time with a blinking signal pointing toward Illya. “You boys have already done the work for me.”

Pierre’s men had found their luggage from the safehouse. They had expected this. But they’ve each changed into new clothes. Napoleon doesn’t even remember which of his trackers have been found and which still lie dormant. Their stupid, idiotic game. How could they have been so stupid?

“Does your boss approve of this?” Pierre continues, greatly amused as he presents Napoleon’s scanner to him, making sure Napoleon sees exactly what it was that had led to Illya’s capture. “You’ve never worried about your equipment falling into the wrong hands?”

Whatever Pierre reads in Napoleon’s expression, it makes his smirk grow wider.

“I have to admit I have some trouble believing that you are the best UNCLE has to offer.”

“And I have trouble believing that the DST has been so clueless as to give you a commanding position,” Napoleon returns coolly, fighting not to turn his gaze toward Illya’s slumped form.

Pierre’s brows rise. “I see you’ve caught on.”

“That you’ve been using your organization’s informants for your own purposes? I can’t say it was very difficult.”

“It’s always much easier to borrow the resources one needs instead of wasting time and effort creating something from scratch. I’m sure you’d understand that better than most, Solo, considering the circumstances of your current employment.”

Napoleon almost laughs. What is Pierre suggesting? That he’s part of some sort of evil UNCLE? Or was that a jab at his criminal background?

“They already know you’re a traitor,” Napoleon says, ignoring the baiting words. Pierre’s actions haven’t exactly been subtle, starting with blowing up part of Paris and ending with this kidnapping. Waverly already knows, and probably even now, Pierre is being stripped of his rank and authority.

“I am well aware that I am now exposed, but my situation should be the least of your current concerns, Mr. Solo.”

“Perhaps, though I don’t understand. Why are you doing this?” Napoleon says, “You have a cushy job, access to resources and intelligence for you to do with as you liked. Is a computer worth that much to you?” He can’t quite imagine it, all this sacrifice just for a burdensome piece of technology.

Pierre laughs, an ugly, rumbling sound. “No, Mr. Solo, I could not care less about this ‘computer’ you speak of. My, you still think this is about that American girl.”

Napoleon’s frown deepens, uncomprehending.

“Well, I suppose it’s fair to tell you, before we begin the process of killing you and your friends,” Pierre says, turning to examine Illya. Napoleon’s heart lurches wildly.

Keep them talking, isn’t that the rule? As long as they’re enjoying themselves, they won’t pay attention to hurting you and the people you love.

“You know, Mr. Solo, I had been perfectly prepared to go after you alone.”

The words prick through Napoleon’s skin like needles, drawing blood. This is your fault, it promises. He wouldn’t be hurt if you had just played by the rules.

“I had it planned out nicely, the things that would happen to you after we helped you ‘disappear’. But then, the truth came out, and I had to make a few changes.”

The truth? Napoleon’s mind cycles through the events of the past few days, before everything clicks together in his mind. The interrogation, the ‘local’ agents, the man who had pointed them toward Élodie Beaumont and their potential deaths. “Barath.”

“Yes.” Pierre turns toward Napoleon then, speaking as though Napoleon is just a particularly dim-witted child. “It was very helpful of you to finally come out and ask after what you really wanted, I could simply prepare a new trap for you to walk into. Of course, you cost me one of my more valuable pieces, so in a moment, I will thank you for that.”

Barath? “We barely hurt him.”

“No, but you see, we don’t like to suffer traitors, even if their confessions do ultimately help our purposes.”

Barath’s face returns to Napoleon’s mind, angry, belligerent, charming. He remembers the moment when he handed the man over to agents he thought could be relied on, and Pierre’s words paint a much darker fate than he had expected. Those agents had never been truly allied with UNCLE. “You killed him?”

“Naturally,” Pierre says with a shrug. “It’s a competitive business, someone will step in to take over his role, just like someone will take over yours, as well as your friends, when you both die here. It’s no great loss, though it will make things inconvenient for a time.”

His captor’s gaze returns to Illya, considering his unconscious body like it is a mere slab of meat. Napoleon’s gaze flits between the two of them, his breath quickening. There has to be something he can do. Yet Pierre’s men are gathered around them, watching like hungry wolves. He can't so much as twitch without someone seeing.

“Tell me,” Pierre says, “do you remember Victoria Vinciguerra?”

The blood in Napoleon’s veins freezes to ice, and he falls still, his expression shuttering in the instant everything becomes clear.

“You see, she was a good friend of mine. That is, before you killed her.”

When Napoleon speaks, it is with the hope that he can turn Pierre’s attention back toward him instead. “Technically, it was her own bomb that killed her.”

Pierre strikes Illya across the face. Napoleon starts, his heart leaping into a racing beat as the hit lands. Illya’s head loll with the force, and as Napoleon watches, Illya’s brow furrows slightly, his lashes fluttering as he threatens to wake. Napoleon forces himself to look away, desperate not to draw any more attention to his partner.

“I read the report, Agent Solo.” Pierre turns to face Napoleon with cold eyes. “Trust that I am well aware of who it was that orchestrated Victoria’s death, who it was that taunted her with Alexander’s death. I have a good mind to cut out that tongue of yours.”

This time, Napoleon stays silent, refusing to give Pierre any more reason to hurt Illya.

“But for now, I think I will help my late friend fulfill her promise to you. What was it that she said over the radio? Any blood relative will suffer a painful death within the year?”

Pierre reaches out an arm, and a man hands him a coiled whip. Napoleon watches, expressionless, as Pierre thoughtfully unwinds the spirals of black leather. Fighting the hysteric edges of rising panic, Napoleon’s gaze flits to Illya, and finds bright blue eyes staring back at him.

Something must show in his expression, because Illya’s eyes harden, his jaw setting in resolve. Napoleon can’t show that he cares. Though maybe, Napoleon thinks as he sees the knowing looks in the eyes of the men surrounding him, it’s already too late to start pretending otherwise.

“Since there’s no family of yours around right now,” Pierre says. “What do you say we start with your lover?”

 

-

 

Napoleon watches every moment.

They tie a rag around Illya’s mouth, worked between teeth and pressing down on his tongue. Illya’s shirt is torn from his shoulders next, exposing skin and scars. Pierre tells him to enjoy the show.

The whip paints streaks of red along Illya’s back, and the knife, when it comes out, carves new lines into flesh.

Illya stares at Napoleon, his gritted teeth the only thing that gives away his pain. Napoleon sees there something he cannot name, lurking beyond determination, beyond resolve, yet he doesn’t dare to look away. He hangs suspended, useless, untouched, counting every violent crack of the whip, watching as the light in Illya’s eyes dim. His heart seizes the first time a pained grunt escapes Illya’s lips, and the pain doubles when Illya’s eyes finally slide closed.

Illya passes out, and that is when they bring out the water. They pour the freezing, icy liquid over him, laughing as Illya wakes with a ragged gasp that Napoleon feels himself echoing. The water mingles with the blood, turning pink as it drips downwards, and the men take Illya from the hook.

They hold him under, pressing him down until his struggles slow and almost stop. Only then, do they pull him out again, and Napoleon finds his own twisted, morbid pleasure in the relief of hearing Illya’s gasps for breath.

This was never supposed to happen, this is his fault.

Why don’t you beg? They ask, sweet, mocking. This will be easier if you begged.

They should have pulled out, they should have. This was Napoleon’s stupid idea.

Napoleon watches every moment, helpless, powerless, until he becomes the one screaming for it to stop.

 

-

 

It stops, perhaps hours, days later, but eventually, it stops.

Napoleon’s eyes are blurred with tears, his throat burning from his screams, his breaths coming in gasps. He hears Pierre’s soft laughter, a warbled, poisonous sound. They hadn’t touched him, no matter how much he begged, they hadn’t so much as touched him, and concentrated their attention on Illya instead.

They pull him from his hook, and Napoleon can’t even feel the burn in his arms and shoulders as they drag him from the room. He stares at Illya’s slumped, bloody form, and screams because it is the only thing he can do, the only way he knows to alleviate Illya’s torture. The door slams shut behind him, and then, he is thrown onto a hard dirt floor, and something else slams shut with a clang.

He is in a cell. Hours pass and Napoleon is left alone somewhere dark and empty. He doesn’t know where Illya is, and the image of his back splattered with blood, the crack of the whip, everything plays in his mind over and over. He paws at his own clothing through the haze, trying to find anything, a lock pick, a pin that his captors had missed. There is nothing, so he curls up in a corner of the cell, waiting, remembering, waiting.

 

-

 

Sometime during the night, Napoleon is brought back to consciousness by the jangle of keys outside the door to his cell. There is a light click as the lock is opened, and a small creak as light spills through the opening door. Soft footsteps sound against the floor, approaching.

It’s not one of the henchmen, their footsteps are far heavier, and their gaits longer. Napoleon makes no movement, waiting to strike. Just as the footsteps come to a stop beside him and a hand settles on his shoulder, he pushes from the floor and lashes out, catching the stranger’s arm and twisting it behind their back, taking out their legs in one sweeping motion and pressing them to the floor beneath his weight. There is a startled yelp, and Napoleon takes in the small frame of his assailant, the long brown hair tied back in a ponytail, and the higher pitched voice of the person struggling beneath his hold.

Napoleon frowns, a suspicion forming in his mind, and then eases back.

The woman immediately twists and climbs to her feet, whirling toward him with a face full of fury. A face Napoleon immediately recognizes from photos each one of them had memorized.

Janine Russell.

“Hello,” Napoleon says, staring at her in bewilderment. Was he just rescued by the woman they’d come to save?

Russell runs her gaze over him once, and her expression falls into a grim frown. “Come with me,” she hisses, “You’re going to help me find Élodie.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And at this point, please have my apologies again because there might be another long wait as I'll be travelling overseas for the next five weeks. I'll attempt to get some writing done when I can, but the next update may not come before new years. D:

**Author's Note:**

> If you have any questions or concerns, or would just like to discuss the story, just drop me a line here or on [tumblr](http://ingu.tumblr.com/ask).
> 
> Title taken from '[Augustine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J_eJePIJV2U)' by Vienna Teng.
> 
> Also, please check out [this amazing fanart](http://minghii.tumblr.com/post/131508642902/why-are-you-doing-this-says-illya-his) by minghii.


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